


The Art of Memory

by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate World History, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild torture, Non-Consensual, Slavery, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Torture involving sharp pointy needles, Witness to Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 81,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joni_Beloni/pseuds/jonius_belonius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike has been wandering through the empire for six years, living on the fringes as a full time fugitive and a part time rebel.  A message from his grandmother sends him back to New York, only to find himself betrayed.  He is forced to rely on Harvey, who is a stranger – and exactly the sort of slick, arrogant puppet of the empire that he despises – for both his future, and to help him discover who betrayed him, and why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mike was back in New York.

 _Finally_.

Exhaustion shivered through him, as if his entire system had conspired to hold fatigue at bay until this moment.  Lately, he’d begun to feel as if he hadn’t slept in years, hadn’t stopped moving, that his life had become one endless, dizzying hallucination of running and hiding and discovering new ways to survive.

It had been six years since Mike had seen New York City, but he remembered it all, every detail.

The old Sforza Eagle 6 lowered its landing gear, sending a brief shudder through the body of the plane.  Leaning his forehead against the cool window, Mike gazed hungrily down at sights he’d thought he would never see again:  the skyscrapers of Manhattan, water taxis and pleasure barges floating on the East River, the rehabbed marble palazzos of Brooklyn and the crumbling Romanesque towers which had once been the pride of Queens but now housed off-grid squatters and released indentures with nowhere else to go.

As they glided lower, he glimpsed the famed sculpture garden of Central Park among long orderly rows of cypress trees.  The bronze warriors and marble gods and goddesses had served as his fantasyland when he was a boy.  His parents had let him wander there for hours at a time, playing at being an imperial spy or a favorite slave boy of one of the heroes of centuries past.  Unlike the factory-made reproductions from Eurasia, the statues in Central Park were authentic, looted from Florence and Rome itself in the Schismatic Wars of nearly two centuries earlier.  Almost as much as seeing his grandmother again, Mike longed to view those magnificent ancient statues through an adult lens, to discover whether they held as much beauty and mystery as they had when he was small.

His view of the park was suddenly blocked by an ornate dirigible drifting too close to the Eagle 6’s flight path.  He’d heard about the current craze for the unwieldy contraptions, something only the wealthy could afford, but this was the first he’d seen, isolated as he’d been lately.  He could clearly make out the dozen or so passengers in the lower gondola which was suspended by wires from an oblong balloon gaily painted with the family crest of its owner.  A few of the passengers raised glasses of wine and waved.  Beyond them, he spotted more dirigibles floating at various heights.  Curiosity turned to alarm as the craft appeared to turn their way.  With no warning other than a tightening of the auto-restraints across his chest and lap, the airplane’s trajectory suddenly steepened, whooshing downward for several heart-stopping seconds before adjusting course back to its slow, shallow descent.

Mike regulated his breathing and forced himself to relax, watching the scenery pass by underneath.  The Eagle 6 banked, beginning a leisurely loop which brought into view the Upper East Side manor houses and then the warren of tenements packed tight together near the Collegium Civitas.  As they passed over Manhattan once more, lining up with the runway assigned by the tower at Charlemagne International, he caught sight of Collegium Columbiana and felt a wistful twist in his gut at what could have been if not….Well, just if not.  He shut his eyes, as if blocking out the view of those familiar buildings could prevent him from remembering the whole sorry fiasco which had sent him fleeing from New York, onto his random, restless path through the more primitive territories of the empire, some surprisingly lovely, and some heart-wrenchingly ugly.

The airplane made a sickening drop through space seconds before the wheels touched down, roughly jostling  Mike and the other 200 or so passengers.  The Sforza Eagle 6 was only half full.  Just after takeoff from San Diego’s Octavian, Mike had weighed the risks of moving to one of the empty rows so that he could stretch out and maybe catch some shut eye.  He’d decided it probably wasn’t a good idea.  The Imperial Conglomerate of the Americas was all about following rules, and although he could get away with a bit of looseness in the smaller towns and forgotten villages of the west, New York had been rated three decades running as the mostly strictly regimented population center in either the ICA or the Eurasian Hemispheric Conglomerates.

Strictly regimented did not mesh with his current line of…not employment exactly…his current line of endeavor.  He certainly never would have returned here if Grammy hadn’t managed to smuggle a message to him, sending it through Trevor and the complex network of rebels and rebel sympathizers with whom Mike had become entangled.  Grammy’s message had eventually found Mike where he’d been holed up in the foothills of the Cascadius Mountain range near the breeding ranches which stretched from New Olympus to Seattle.  Somehow he had become mixed up in the local cell’s hare-brained scheme to liberate farm bred clones from the Anderson ranch in the hopes they could shore up the rebels’ small numbers.  He was just as happy to have missed the denouement of their plotting. 

The message Trevor had sent along the rebel underground had been simply this:  “G. ill.  Urgent you return.” 

He had headed out the same night, taking a circuitous route, first to Novus Angelus to obtain a first-rate and expensive set of identification documents and travel permit, and then further south to San Diego.  He had managed perhaps an hour of sleep on the overnight flight, and now felt unpleasantly jittery as the Eagle 6 taxied toward the terminal.  One hand slipped into the pocket of his new suit coat to finger his fake ID again.  He didn’t know why he was worrying.  The forgery was excellent, better than he’d ever had on his endless criss-crossing travel of the continent in the six years since his expulsion from Columbiana.

He shook his head.  He’d been so green back then, so scared and so certain that he’d be caught and sent back for indenture and re-socialization.  It had taken two of those six years for anger at Trevor to recede far enough for him to finally reestablish tentative contact.  Trevor swore that Mike had not been implicated in the cheating scheme Trevor had dragged him into, and urged him to return.  Mike might have gone back then, but he’d grown used to the freedom that off-grid living brought.  Minimum obligations and maximum chemical intake had become his goals.  His life hadn’t quite reached that point yet, since he had to work occasional jobs in order to eat – much less afford a decent bottle of New Jersey apple brandy or the rare ounce of weed.  Two years into his odyssey, he had made (entirely accidental) contact with the rebel network.  After that, he had quickly discovered that he could trade enough of the random information lodged in his memory to make ends meet.

He’d met some interesting people and had some entertaining (if at times terrifying) adventures.  The downside was, he could theoretically have a death sentence on his head if any of his fake identities were ever connected to Michael Ross from New York.

The auto-restraints uncoupled as the Eagle 6 reached its destination.  Mike waited for the rows ahead of him to empty.  The rebels had been generous with funds for his travel, but that hadn’t extended to preferential seating  He had ended up in the last row, pressed close to a window, boxed in by a well-fed family of five on their mandated pilgrimage to the great seat of Imperial power.  The three children had chattered unceasingly for the first few hours of the flight, and Mike had toyed with the idea of informing them that Wall Street didn’t have any rides or games or team laser jousts to amuse them.  Their parents had finally signaled the flight worker for a round of nap juice for the kids and the rest of the flight had been blissfully quiet.

The two adults next to Mike finally stood and dragged their sluggish children down the narrow aisle toward the open hatch.  Mike scooted over, stood and  
stretched and reached above him for his carryon suitcase.  As he lifted it down, one of its wheels caught on a crumpled blanket and he was bent over trying to disentangle the blanket when something moved in his peripheral vision.  “I’m coming,” he called, assuming it was one of the flight workers trying to hurry him out of the plane.

The last thing he expected to hear was the whirring buzz of charged shocker prods.  He recognized the sound immediately, though, and straightened so suddenly he overbalanced and fell back into the seat nearest to him in the back row.  At least five helmeted security centurions crowded the aisle, moving his way.  “I didn’t…,” he breathed, slowly raising his hands above his head, “I’m not….”

The nearest guard stopped three feet from him and held up an iScroll.  Mike couldn’t see the man’s face behind his ebony visor, but he heard his voice just fine, filtered through the speakers of the iScroll, tinny and impersonal.  “Are you Citizen Michael James Ross?”

Panic surged through him.  His forged documents said he was Richard Sorkin.  How could he have pinged the criminal location system?  The forgery had been perfect, as far as he could tell.  The Novus Angelus rebels had replaced Sorkin’s biometric fingerprint and eye scans with Mike’s.  He had no criminal record in New York. Unless….

A sick feeling overcame Mike.  Did they know about his rebel affiliations?  _Ah, Zeus._   He was trapped.  He couldn’t flee, couldn’t bluster his way out of this, so he nodded weakly and swallowed hard.  “Why am I being detained?  What’s the charge, Centurion?”  His heart sped up, thudding so loudly in the cage of his chest that he was certain everyone left on the plane could hear it.

He knew full well the treatment rebels received.  First he would be tortured until he gave up every piece of information he possessed about the rebel network.  Then he would be executed in the arena, tied up and torn apart by horses, set upon by hungry lions, or perhaps starved and then forced into a grossly overmatched fight to the death against one of the professional gladiators – unless they judged him worth salvaging, and he was re-socialized and reclassified as ex-citizen and imperial slave.  Of the two fates, he wasn’t sure which he’d prefer.

Well, no, he’d probably prefer the latter.  Being torn apart by horses did not sound pleasant. 

He swallowed again and clenched his hands into fists, pressing his nails into his palms, afraid that he would disgrace himself by passing out.

The guard took a step closer and spoke again.  “This centurion hereby certifies that the charges against Citizen Ross are as follows:  theft of an alchemical examination and sharing of the same, aiding, abetting and participating in a willful and egregious fraud against the Imperial Collegiate System of the province of New York.”

Mike sat completely still, stunned.  A strangled laugh forced its way out of his throat.  “That’s it?  You’re arresting me for cheating on a test six years ago?”

He stood up, shaking his head in disbelief, rapidly scanning his memory for what he had read about the penalties for cheating in school.  Limited indenture and forfeiture of citizen class had sounded unthinkable six years ago, ending, as it had, his hopes of advancement.  Six years as a fugitive, three of those living daily with the possibility of being prosecuted as a rebel terrorist made that punishment now seem negligible.  He took a step toward the centurion without thinking, forgetting for that brief moment that the only acceptable action for a detained transgressor was to turn away and kneel, hands crossed at his lower back, passively awaiting the zip ties.

The lead guard’s shock prod whipped up in a movement so fast that Mike had no time to dodge or duck the thin, barb-tipped wire that arced towards him and caught his upper shoulder, sending 50,000 volts into his body, simultaneously releasing a quick acting sedative that had him spiraling into unconsciousness so quickly he had no time to slow his fall.  He had a vague, drug-dulled impression of hitting the floor face first.  The last thing he heard before darkness descended was the guard’s calm, businesslike voice.  “Sergeant, make a note in the record to append resisting arrest to the original charges.”


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Pro bono_?”  Harvey stared at Jessica, affronted.  “Really, Jessica?  I’m a partner.  That was your idea, remember?”

She gazed back at him, serene as the Liberty Sphinx in the harbor.  “Yes I do.  Don’t make me regret it.”

“Come on.  This sort of bullshit work should go to first or second year ecclesiastical advocates.  Why would you want your top civil advocate and the best closer in New York throwing his morning away on something so…so…petty?”

Jessica stood across his desk from him, arms crossed, and laughed lightly.  When she spoke, though, her voice was as uncompromising as ever.  “You really should try keeping up on your professional publications.  If you had, you would know that IBAC has recommended that high ranking advocates well versed in both oratory and canon law handle at least one third of all pro bono cases in order to lend a greater air of legitimacy to their rulings.  We all know that ‘recommendations’ are as good as decrees with this latest administration.”  She muttered something under her breath that sounded like _fucking Ghibbelines._   Smoothing the fleeting sneer from her face, she said, “The firm needed a way to court favor with them, so I put your name on the list, and now you’ve been assigned a case.  I suggest you get yourself down to the municipal court before IBAC sends their condottiere squad here to collect you.”

Harvey grimaced.  IBAC – the Imperial Bureau of Advocate Control – were a pack of overzealous rule makers who seemed to thrive on making the lives of working advocates as miserable as possible.  And their condottiere boasted some of the more vicious mercenaries in the Empire.  He’d have to be a fool to bring their attention to Pearson Hardman, and he liked to believe he was no fool.  Plus, Jessica’s inference that he was the firm’s most valuable piece in the eternal game of imperial chess had him somewhat mollified.  “Fine.”  He tossed his pen on the desk, stood up and slid on his suit coat.  “Any idea what flavor of low life will be diverting my considerable skill and obscenely high billable time?”

Jessica gave him a bland smile and turned to leave, throwing him a parting shot over her shoulder.  “Not my job to know.  This one’s all yours.”

“Great,” he grumbled, watching her leave.

Donna caught his eye and shook her head.

“Something you wanted to say?” he asked her.

Her eyes widened innocently and she shook her head again.  “Not a thing.”

“That’s a first.”  He checked his pocket, making sure he had his phone.  “Could you let Ray know I’m on my way down?”

“Mm hmm.”  She began clicking away at her keyboard, making no move toward her phone.

“Fine, I’ll do it myself.”  He hit speed dial, put his phone to his ear and headed toward the elevator.

He was a few feet past Donna when he heard her say, “It’s just –” and pause.  Her fingers continued flickering over the keyboard.  He had no idea what she was typing.  She always seemed to be typing something, and he had suspected for some time that she must either have an anonymous a blog, or spend a lot of time on FaceForum updating her status.

He stopped.  “I’ll be outside in two minutes,” he told Ray, and then looked over his shoulder at Donna’s profile.  Figuring he’d probably regret it, he asked, “What?”

Donna sucked in her lips and turned to him, her expression comically innocent.  She spoke in a rush.  “Norma told me that yesterday Louis put his own name on the list.”

“On the – you mean the municipal court list for pro bono volunteers?”  He walked back to her desk, scowling down at her, head cocked to one side.  “Why would he do that?”  His gaze shifted and grew unfocused as his mind worked the question like a puzzle.  How could Louis – or anyone else – derive benefit from pro bono work?  What was the endgame?  Did Jessica know?  He looked back at Donna.  “Find out who Louis has been having lunch with lately.”

“Already did that.  Answer: no one.  He always eats lunch at his desk.”

“Huh.”  He tapped his fingers on her desk.  “Damn.  What is he up to?  He’s not planning on entering the political arena, is he?”

“Louis?”  She gave him an exaggerated grimace and then looked to the left and to the right.  “I’ve heard whispers that’s he was spotted in the next box over from the proconsul at the Met’s latest production of Maresca’s _Return to Ithaca._ Angling for an appointment, maybe?”

“Maybe.  He’s too obsessed with his billable hours to sacrifice even a minute for something trivial.”  He glanced at his watch.  “Shit.  I’d better get moving.  You keep your ears open, and be careful.  These intrigues can get messy.”

She eyed him coyly.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.  Oh and speaking of messy….”

Suppressing a growl, Harvey paused yet again.  “This better not be about that thing I’ve told you that I do not want to talk about.”

“The guild is sending over their apprentices again.  They’ll be in the main conference room this afternoon.”

This time he did growl, drawing it out into an aggrieved groan.  “I don’t want an apprentice.  They’re needy and lazy and sneaky and they smell funny.”

“Well, suck it up, buttercup.  You’re a partner, and unless you want to get kicked out of the guild, you’d better adopt one of the puppies by end of business day.  If not, I’ll pick one out for you, and don’t count on it being housetrained.”

“Donna….”  He knew from experience that it didn’t pay to argue with Donna, and he was already running late.  So he finally threw up his hands and conceded – for now.  “Fine.  I’ll be there.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mike woke up to find himself lying on a narrow bunk with an iron frame and a crumbly foam mattress.    Stale odors filled the dimly lit cell.  A much regretted inhale revealed strong hints of sweat and blood and human waste, all overlaid by a light layer of tropical fresh Febreze.  The walls were stone, and the floors cracked cement.  On the whole, it was about how he might have pictured a municipal holding cell, if he’d ever thought to dwell on such things.

A yard long chain locked around one ankle restricted his movements, keeping him on his narrow bunk in his quarter of the cell, which he didn’t mind as much as he might have, since the pulsing pain in his head made moving seem like a terrible idea.  Three roommates were similarly restrained in their own quadrants.  They didn’t seem inclined to talk to him, nor he to them.  His head pounded ferociously.  His face felt as if he’d been dropped upon it repeatedly, which he thought might be true.  The fact that he couldn’t quite remember the details of his arrest and intake worried him.  He always remembered everything. 

Through the remainder of that day and the night that followed, he waited, the agony in his head a constant companion.  At times, the pain was joined by curiosity over his future and worry for his grandmother.  He assumed his trial and conviction (or “trialviction” as the media had recently coined the new law) would take place within a day or two. As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait that long.

The next morning he was escorted through a maze of hallways and into a sterile room of white and chrome so bright it hurt his eyes.  His already raging headache edged towards temporary blindness territory.  Thankfully the whole thing was short and to the point:  guilty on all counts.  The adjudicator checked in briefly via Skype to make it official with an e-signature.  The courtroom functionaries moved through their duties with such dispirited efficiency that Mike suspected they were serving indenture sentences of their own.  He tried, and failed, to picture himself joining their ranks.

When he was led to a much smaller but similarly sterile looking room stocked with what he at first mistook for medical instruments, he began to panic. It took him only a few moments to realize that this was the intake tattoo station, and was not an operating room for other, more drastic body modifications which had been phased out over the last several decades. 

His nerves nearly got the best of him when his shirt was removed and he was strapped into a chair with such thoroughness that he couldn’t even move his head.  He alternated between squeezing his eyes shut to block out the brightness, and slitting them open to track the skin tech as he removed equipment from the autoclave and organized the colors of ink he’d be using. 

“What’s it gonna be?” Mike quipped, although he already had a pretty good idea.  “Mickey Mouse?  Pompeian brothel sign? A butterfly over _‘Lucius Possedi Gravedam'_ ’?”

The tech rolled his eyes.  No doubt he’d heard all the lame jokes before.  Instead of answering, he gestured to someone Mike couldn’t see.  In another room, Mike could hear someone else’s tattoo in progress, the sound of the tattoo machine sounding as if it was vibrating inside his head, permanently marking his thoughts and personality and memory. In spite of his best efforts, a small moan escaped him.  The pain had grown ridiculous, and he was starting to wonder if he had a concussion or an aneurysm or a tumor or a dormant twin inside his skull that had suddenly begun growing and trying to claw its way out.  He groaned again.

“Dose him up,” he heard the skin tech say.   “He’s moaning like a little bitch and I need to get him inked up before lunch.  I don’t want him puking all over my equipment.”

Mike couldn’t turn his head, but he didn’t need to.  A med tech entered his field of vision.  She had long dark hair, a figure like Aphrodite, shimmied when she walked, and wore the standard issue tech clothes as if they were made specially for her by Versace or Cavalli.  Her plastic name tag read “Rachel,” and she carried a small tray which held two hypodermic needles.  _Please,_ he thought, _please let those both be for me_. 

“Hi,” Mike said weakly.  “What have you got there?  Is that what I think it is?  I’ll take two.  Or twenty if you’ve got them.  Did I mention you’re pretty?”

She laughed, shook her head and then sat on a rolling chair and moved close to Mike’s hip.  “No need for flattery.  It’s all yours.  Your chart says you were pretty banged up when they brought you in.”

The skin tech, who was leaning against the wall near the door suddenly straightened.  “I’m gonna go grab a smoke,” he muttered, and then he was gone and they were alone.

Pulling on latex gloves, Rachel went through a series of practiced, impersonal motions, rolling down the elastic waistband of his pants to expose his hip, swabbing it with antiseptic, and plunging in first one needle and then the other.  The pain in Mike’s head didn’t immediately disappear, but his tension eased just at the knowledge that he would soon feel better.

“Did they just now notice?” he asked.

Her brow wrinkled and she asked, a laugh in her voice, “Did who notice what?”

“The....”  Mike waved a hand (just the hand, since his arm was held immobile), meaning to indicate his head.  It (his hand) looked like a fish flopping around on the floor of a boat.  He watched it for a few seconds, trying to remember what he had meant to say.  When he shook his head, trying to clear it, he was surprised at the muted nature of the pain.  “Whoa.  Nice.  My compliments to the chef.”  He suddenly remembered, and his eyes popped open. “I think what I meant -- you know, earlier...a minute ago -- was, why the drugs now?  If I’m concussed, I’ve been concussed for a day already.”

She taped a wad of gauze to his thigh, straightened his waistband, and stripped off her gloves, and tossed them, along with the needles and tray down the nearest decon tube.  “You’re not concussed.  But once you were convicted you became imperial property, and therefore too valuable to remain in less than optimum condition.”

Forgetting he was strapped in place, he tried to sit up, so indignant was he at her words.  “Bullshit,” he sputtered.

She rolled the chair so that her face was inches from his, and touched a finger to her lips.  “Quiet.  We don’t have a lot of time.  No, obviously you’re not a clone, and therefore no slave.  By property, I don’t mean owned outright.  More like leased or rented.”

“But -- ”

“Ssh.  Keep your voice down.  I have a message for you.”

Mike stopped the pointless struggle against his restraints and stared at her out of the corner of his eyes.  “From my grandmother?”

She shook her head and an expression flitted across her face which he couldn’t quite make out from his angle of vision. “From your...acquaintances out west.  They have connections here in New York.  All you need to know is that we’re working to get you out of the city.  And--”  She stopped, listening.    The room was silent. 

“And what?”  He blinked slowly at the stark white wall across from him.  His jail cell could use a visit from whoever kept this room so clean.  He jumped a little when Rachel shook his shoulder to get his attention.

“They said to tell you to be patient.  Arrangements need to be made.  Oh, and whatever you do, don’t trust your public advocate.”

Mike strained his eyes sideways, trying to see her more clearly.  “Why?  Is he working for The Man?”

He saw her bite her lip, unsuccessfully hiding a smile.  “Of course he is.  He’s court appointed, stupid.”

Giving in a little to the drugs which were flowing through his system, washing away the pain and his inclination to give a shit, he closed his eyes.  Smiling a little himself, he wished they were somewhere else, sharing a jar of wine, each well on the way to discovering a new friend for life.  That little fantasy disappeared when she shook his shoulder again.  “Hi,” he said, opening his eyes.  “You’re pretty.”

“ _Zeus._ Pay attention.  Gregory will be back any minute.  Hey, Mike.  You with me?”

“Mm hmm.”

She moved closer, leaning in again so they could look at one another directly.  “Never forgot for a second that advocate-client privilege no longer exists.  The IBI and Provincial Advocate’s office thinks you can lead them to the re -- to the others.  They want your cooperation, and they don’t believe you’d give it willingly.  But don’t worry. All you have to do is accept whatever sentence you’re offered and wait for a message.  Mike.”  She snapped her fingers inches from his nose.  “Do you understand?  Will you remember?”

Behind her, the door opened.  “Yeah,” Mike mumbled.  “I understand.”  He was floating now, drifting pleasantly toward sleep.  "I’ll remember.“ 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little time line faux pas has occurred due to my scatterbrainedness: chapter three occurs in time a couple of weeks before both chapters two and four (this here chapter). And so one of the many pitfalls of posting a WIP rears its ugly head. Mea culpa.

Half an hour later, Harvey stood at the counter in IBAC provincial headquarters, tapping his fingers impatiently while the angular young clerk at the computer terminal hunted and pecked and backspaced, hunted and pecked and deleted, sighed, spaced, tabbed, and spaced some more. He gave Harvey an apologetic if somewhat sour smile. “System’s acting up a little,” he murmured. “If the proconsul would just appropriate funds for an upgrade….” He cleared his throat and tipped his head up, the better to peer through his reading glasses at the screen. “Ah. This must be it. Oh yes. I remember this one. An interesting case.”

“You don’t say.”

“Well, yes, actually. I do say. Most of the offenses routed through here are relatively minor. Dull. Strictly routine. But we’ve got something special for you, Citizen Specter. This young fellow has been apprehended after six years as a fugitive.” The clerk said this last rather breathlessly, as though thrilled at the prospect of being in such close proximity to the daring criminal.

Harvey straightened up and frowned thoughtfully. “That’s a long time to stay ahead of the IBI bloodhounds.”

The clerk typed a series of commands and the file began printing on a machine that didn’t sound any more up to date than the computer. “That will take a few minutes to finish.”

“So what did he do?” Harvey asked, leaning an elbow on the clerk’s counter, intrigued in spite of himself.

“We don’t know. His only known relative was an elderly woman who took the early exit option nearly a year ago.”

Harvey shook his head, hanging on to his interest -- and patience -- by a filament. “No, I mean what was his crime? Why was he running?”

“Oh.” The clerk stared at the screen again, dragging his long finger down the rows of text that Harvey could just make out from where he stood. “Here it is. Collegiate fraud. Huh.” He seemed disappointed.

Harvey wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “You mean this guy, what, cheated on a test?”

The young man gave Harvey a disapproving scowl. “He was a citizen, Mr. Specter. His actions dishonored the Empire. Dishonor leads to disorder.”

“I can recite the Citizen’s Code as well as you. It just seems a stupid reason to throw the rest of your life away. Why would he run?”

“Hmm. Well I couldn’t say, sir. You’ll have to speak to the young man if you want an answer to that. Not that it matters. What’s done is done and he’s in for it now. And here is your file, all printed out.” He grabbed the pages off the printer, placed them in a folder, slapped a label on the folder and slid it across the counter so forcefully that Harvey had to slam his palm down on it to keep it from flying off and onto the carpet.

“And where do I – ”

“Wait in the antechamber across the hall. Read this.” A small, official looking pamphlet joined the case file on the counter. “The prisoner will be delivered to you shortly.” He swiveled away, perhaps irritated that the “interesting” case had turned out to be merely the usual pedestrian stuff after all.

Harvey picked up the file and pamphlet (“So You’ve Been Summoned for Pro Bono Duty – Now What?”), considered a sarcastic response, and decided it wasn’t worth the energy. He just wanted to apprise the indigent criminal of his punishment options and get back to his paying clients. He turned around to leave and came within a hairsbreadth of colliding with Louis Litt.

“Shit,” Louis said. “Harvey. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Conjugal visit with your wife.”

Louis’ mouth went tight and pinched. “That just never gets old for you, does it?”

Harvey stepped out into the hallway, and Louis followed. “Nope. What does get old is you snooping into my business. So I’ll ask you the same thing. What are you doing here?”

“Not that it’s any or your concern, but I’m doing a favor for one of our clients. Their son got himself into a little bit of trouble. I’m here to make sure he receives a favorable sentence. So if you’ll excuse me...”

“By all means.” Harvey watched Louis enter the clerk’s office. He couldn’t hear much of what they said to one another, but it quickly seemed clear that no file for Louis was forthcoming.

Louis returned to the hallway, fuming.

“Problem?” asked Harvey.

“The man is a cretin. Someone else received my case, and he won’t tell me who.”

Against his better judgment, Harvey said, “No reason for us both to suffer through this tedious process. You can take my crap case, and I’ll get back to the office, thus restoring order to the Universe.”

“Not a chance. Jessica sent you down here, and I’m not going to piss her off by aiding and abetting you in one of your slippery little schemes to dodge any real work.”

“Well, how about this, then? Tell me the kid’s name and I’ll keep my ears open.”

Louis’ expression grew even cagier than it already was. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll handle this on my own, thank you very much. You’d better get in there and deal with you little public nuisance or litterbug or whatever it is they have lined up for you.”

“Suit yourself,” Harvey responded, and immediately dismissed Louis and his problems from his thoughts.

He grimaced when he entered the antechamber the clerk had indicated, finding it decorated in the fake Renaissance style which Harvey detested. “Fresco” wallpaper clashed with the patterned faux-marble on the floor. The overly ornate pink velvet sofas and chairs had probably been mass-produced at some factory in the Eurasian Territories. Resin cherubs littered every available surface, and like the rest of the room were grimy with dust and neglect.

Almost as shabby as the room were its occupants, young, sharp-eyed men and woman in bad suits and even worse shoes. They all glanced up when he strolled in, and then away again when they deduced that he clearly was not their assigned client. Ignoring them, Harvey made his way to the only window in the room, which overlooked a courtyard with a barely trickling fountain, a hideous reproduction of some Bernini fountain in Rome that he would never see – unless the Eurasian Conglomerate one day loosened their travel restrictions.

Two guards appeared in the doorway escorting a shackled prisoner. Holding a nonfunctional trumpet festooned with a bedraggled pennant (Harvey rolled his eyes at this ridiculous bit of pretension) one of the guards read from his iScroll, announcing the prisoner’s name and his crimes, and requesting his advocate to follow them through an arched doorway. Since this wasn’t Harvey’s client, he turned away and took out his phone to check his messages and emails before flipping through the informational pamphlet.

Half an hour inched past, and then another, until all of the other waiting advocates had been paired up with their clients and only Harvey remained in the antechamber. He was eying a spindly chair doubtfully, wondering if sitting was worth dirtying his Fioravanti suit, when another prisoner was led to the doorway.

“Michael James Ross,” read one of the guards from the iScroll, “having been duly charged, tried and convicted of collegiate fraud, dishonor, cowardice, identity theft, evading justice and resisting arrest, said prisoner is to be represented at sentencing by Advocate Specter.” He lowered the scroll and stared straight ahead, waiting, as if Harvey wasn’t the only advocate left in the room.

Harvey stepped forward, raising a hand negligently, as if summoning a waiter at _Medici_ , and studied the prisoner. Like every other prisoner, Ross was shackled at ankles and wrists, and wore a sleeveless grey cotton tunic and matching trousers. He was about Harvey’s height, slender, with dark blonde hair which was shaggy and too long, and he was sporting both a bruised face and a new, still healing tattoo on one surprisingly well-defined bicep.

The tattoo extended from his shoulder almost to his elbow. Just beneath it ran a two inch string of tiny numbers and letters, the prisoner’s CIN (Criminal Identification number) which by now would have been entered into the imperial database. Harvey eyed the artwork with interest. It was skillfully done in shades of black, grey, red, jade green and white. New York was one of the few jurisdictions that still adhered to the millennia old custom of using animals to symbolize the crime an offender had committed. In Ross’s case, it was a crocodile for dishonesty, white feather for cowardice, and a stylized bull’s head complete with horns for aggression.

The prisoner certainly didn’t look aggressive at the moment. Staring at the floor, face blank, Ross gave a little jump when Harvey stepped closer and snapped his fingers beneath the young man’s face, getting him to raise his head and look directly at Harvey. His eyes were blue. Which…why was he even noticing such a detail? So the kid’s eyes were blue. And huge. And filled with a kind of passive, intelligent despair.

They stared at one another for a full beat. “Hello there,” Harvey finally said, feeling absurdly as if he was speaking to a shy puppy. To the guards, he said, “You have a conference room for us, I assume?”

“None available right now,” answered the hulking joker with the iScroll. “You can speak to the prisoner in here.” He waved an arm to indicate the antechamber. “We’ll be just outside, in the hallway.” He glanced at Ross and sneered. “Not that this one is likely to give you any trouble.”

Harvey didn’t answer. He waited for the guards to move into the hallway and then he nodded toward the grouping of pink velvet seating monstrosities. “Make yourself comfortable, Citizen Ross.”

The prisoner paused in the act of taking a clinking step and turned to Harvey. “Very funny,” he said. His voice, which was attractively clear and strong, also held a heavily sardonic note.

Harvey winced a little inside – although not at all on the outside – at his tactless error. “That’s right,” he said easily, following Mike and watching as he lowered himself onto a pink velvet chair. The boy seemed to be in pain. Harvey made a mental note to file a motion to have any bodily damage credited against his sentence. “Not a citizen anymore. Now you’re just…Ross.”

One side of the prisoner’s mouth curled in…contempt? Amusement? Amused contempt? “Have you ever handled a criminal case before, Harvey?”

Harvey bridled at the use of his first name, but gave an unconcerned shrug. “This is not my usual milieu, no.”

Ross raised his eyebrows and huffed out a laugh. “Milieu?” he repeated, making a face as if smelling something unpleasant. “Right. I get it. You don’t need to lay it on so thickly. You were summoned. You heard and you obeyed, like a good little citizen. No matter how distasteful, you leapt up and hopped right down here to do you civic duty. It’s obvious you know next to nothing about criminal law, so let me educate you a little. I’m no longer a citizen. The sentencing panel, which we’ll appear at in about half an hour, will be the last time I’m legally allowed to use my family name. So why don’t you get used to calling me Mike for the brief time we know one another? Understand? Mike.” He gave Harvey a melancholy half-grin.

Forgetting his expensive suit, Harvey sat on the sofa next to Mike. Their knees nearly touched. “Don’t worry – Mike. I know the law better than anyone else you might have been assigned.” He twitched his hand and showed Mike the pamphlet he’d received from the clerk, held between his index and middle fingers.

Mike read the title and laughed. “’Now What,’ indeed.” His shoulders sagged and he lowered his head, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Ow,” he said after a few seconds, raising his head and gingerly touching the bruise below his eye. “I know how this works. You haggle a little with the adjudicator and the provincial advocate to lower my sentence. If my family was wealthy, some currency might change hands and I’d spend my indenture tutoring rich brats or acting as chaperon or escort to some elderly divorcée. Since my only relative resides in a provincial nursing home, and the only thing I have of value is my mind, I’ll probably end up in either a factory, on janitorial detail, or, if the adjudicator is in a particularly bad mood, on a toxic waste cleanup crew.”

“Mike. What – ”

“Or,” Mike continued, mouth set in a bitter twist, “if any talent scouts happen to be present in the hall of justice today, and find my looks acceptable, I could end up leased out to a brothel, or rented to a private citizen as a sex pet. So long as they can afford the bribes.” He looked right at Harvey, his expression bleak and angry. “Nothing greases the wheels of justice like a hefty portion of imperial gold, eh Harvey?”

Harvey waited to see if Mike had anything more to say, but he seemed to have wound down to a morose silence and Harvey finished the question he had tried to ask earlier. “What did you mean by the value of your mind?”

Mike stared at him. “What?”

Ignoring the irony implicit in the boy’s blank look, Harvey said, “Your mind. You said that the only thing of value you possess is your mind. Could you elaborate on that?”

Now Mike looked suspicious. “Why?” he asked.

Harvey sighed, beginning to wonder why he was even bothering. Something about the kid had piqued his interest and he wasn’t sure if it was the direct and honest blue gaze, the flashes of humor that shone through the melancholy, or the slender, toned body, graceful even shackled as he was.

 _Do not go there,_ he chided himself.

Harvey reached inside the case folder and pulled out a piece of paper. “The clerk provided me with a current list of postings appropriate to your crimes and presumed abilities.” He pretended to scan the list, although he had already nearly committed it to memory while waiting for Mike to appear. “None of these require a sharp mind. Not one. And your choices are pretty much as you just outlined. However.” He glanced at Mike to make sure he had his full attention before continuing. “Despite your rather cynical view of the imperial justice system, if we can prove to the adjudicator that you have some redeeming intellectual qualities, we can probably get you a revised list of options. Unless you want to end up as….” He glanced at the list. “…as a vat scrubber for the Public Sewer and Aqueduct Works, a concession stand worker at Shiva Stadium, or…let’s see, how about five years of high volume sex work in Atlantis City? I’m sure I could convince his honor that you’re up for that challenge.”

Mike shifted in his chair and seemed to size up Harvey. Finally, he shrugged. “I…remember things.”

“Things? What do you mean? What things?”

“All things. Everything. It’s just…I….” Mike’s gaze flicked away and back again before he said, with the air of someone who had spoken the same words many times before, “I consume knowledge like nobody you’ve ever met. Once I’ve read something, I understand it. And once I understand it, I remember it. Always and forever.”

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Harvey nodded. “So you’re a disciple of Simonides and Bruno. Let me guess. You concocted a wicked bad memory palace and blogged about it when you were sixteen, with a screen name of heretic85 or something equally badass.”

Instead of blushing, as Harvey might have expected, Mike sat up straighter, and his eyes flashed with anger. “You can’t be serious. Those people are ridiculous. Obsessed. A little unhinged. They’re geekier than LARPers and drier than an actuary with popcorn farts. They work so hard and expend so much energy constructing their memory palace or garden – or in the case of a kid I knew in school, a memory skateboard park – that more often than not they get lost inside their minds and never bother remembering anything expect the color of the third begonia from the left in the southwest perennial garden, meanwhile forgetting the historical date or alchemical notation it’s supposed to represent. No, I come by my memory naturally. Google ‘eidetic memory,’ Harvey. That’s me.”

Harvey stared at him, trying to determine if he was lying. “Then why would you feel the need to cheat on a test – any test, ever?”

Mike laughed as if surprised by Harvey’s question. “No one ever asked me that before. Look, that wasn’t for me. That was for Trev – for a friend. And for the money we thought we’d make off of other students. We both needed money after the government assistance plans were discontinued.”

That was interesting. “Tell me about this friend of yours.”

“No.” Flat. Uncompromising.

Harvey sighed and resisted the urge to drag a hand through his hair. “Since you claim to know the law so well, I’m sure you’re aware that if you volunteer information about an accomplice, your sentence could be greatly reduced.”

“Only as it pertains to the original charge of cheating. The additional charges of flight, identity theft and resisting arrest, all of which carry higher penalties, will stand regardless of any information I might provide.”

In spite of himself, Harvey was impressed. The kid could have practically quoted that out of a first year textbook. He didn’t push the issue of Mike’s friend – yet. Some people had a screwed up idea about honor. Instead, he asked a question about which he’d been curious since speaking to the clerk. “Did you really resist arrest? That right there wouldn’t suggest a terribly high intellect.”

Mike’s expression turned rueful. “I expressed surprise, which was interpreted as resistance.”

“Which the code allows.”

“At the complete discretion of the arresting centurion. Who was kind of a dick.”

Harvey tilted his head to one side, considering the prisoner. A crazy idea had begun to form. “Tell me,” he said, “what are the first three points Concerning the Loss of Civil Rights from the Enactments –”

“The Enactments of Justinian, Book I, Title XVI.”

“Exactly. Recite them for me.” He leaned back, making an inviting gesture with his hand. “Go ahead. Impress me.”

Mike gave another dismissive shrug and recited: “The loss of civil rights is a change of former status, and takes place in three ways, for it may be the greatest; the lesser, which some persons call intermediate; or the least.

“One: The greatest loss of civil rights is where anyone forfeits at the same time both citizenship and freedom. This occurs in the case of those who are made slaves by way of punishment through the severity of their sentences; or where freedmen are condemned for having been ungrateful to their patrons; or where parties suffer themselves to be sold for the purpose of sharing in the price.

“Two: Less, or intermediate loss of civil rights, is where citizenship itself is lost but freedom is retained; which occurs when a person is interdicted from fire and water, or is banished for an indefinite term to some island.

“Three: The least loss of civil rights is when both citizenship or liberty are retained, but the condition of the individual is altered; which happens when those who were formerly their own masters are subjected to the authority of another, or _vice-versa_.”

Harvey suppressed a smile. “Not bad. But let’s try something a bit more complex.” He reeled off various locations in the Revised Codex: Concerning Noxal Actions; Concerning Religious Places and Expenses of Funerals; Concerning The Action to Compel the Production of Property in Court. Mike responded like an automaton, spewing words back at him with the serene authority of someone who knew they were right. Harvey was impressed, but schooled his face to appear bored and disdainful.

He zoned out a little when Mike started talking about how “the done must restore the property unimpaired, will all its profits and as much more….” That stuff had bored the shit out of him at Harvard. Instead of listening to the words, he found himself studying Mike’s mouth, observing the way it moved, the shapes it made, white teeth appearing and disappearing between his pink lips. It was mesmerizing, but hardly what he should be focusing on. Finally, he held up a hand. “Stop. Please, just stop. That’s plenty. I believe you.”

Harvey looked away, out one of the dingy windows, not wishing to be further distracted by the boy’s pretty face. He recognized the zing of challenge in his gut, that same surge of recklessness he had so often acted on (to his eventual detriment) before Jessica had raised him up from the pool of civic apprentices – those citizens lacking sponsorship or a professional path, who made themselves available for temporary assignments. Along with his fellow apprentices, he’d been just the barest step up from criminal indenture, which would have presented him with unpleasant career paths such as he had listed for Mike.

If Jessica hadn’t spotted some potential in him when he’d been assigned to her firm’s file room, he might still find himself being sent out for mindless jobs lasting a day, a week, a handful of weeks, barely scraping by. Because of her, instead of living in the warren-like dormitory provided to the unassigned apprentices, he had risen nearly as high in society as he could without entering the uncertain arena of politics. And that was something he’d sworn he would never do.

“Um, hello? Harvey?”

He felt a gentle tap on the back of his hand. Mike was trying to gain his attention. He swung his gaze back to him, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

“I…How could I….”

“Spit it out already.”

Mike bit his lip and stared at the ground as if afraid to meet Harvey’s eyes. “My, uh, grandmother lives in Queens. In imperially-subsidized housing. At last she used to. Her health wasn’t too great when I left, and I received news that it’s gotten worse, so she might have been transferred to a long term care facility. I’d really like to see her. I _need_ to see her.” He looked up suddenly, blue eyes shining. “She raised me after my parents…well, just after. She’s the reason I came back. She sent for me.”

Harvey’s eye’s narrowed as he remembered what the clerk had said about Mike’s only relative, and what he had read in the case file. “I see. You say she contacted you recently. She asked you to return?”

Mike nodded. “It was implied, yes.”

“Did she send you this message herself?”

Mike started to look uncomfortable again. “Well, yes. Through certain…avenues.”

“Uh huh. And would those ‘avenues’ involve this ‘Trev’ no name you don’t want to talk about?”

Mike’s flush and rigid features were all the answer Harvey needed. “Mike,” he said. “Look at me.” When Mike finally met his eyes, Harvey continued, keeping his voice soft. “Here is what you’re going to do. You’re going to tell me everything you know about ‘Trev,” including his full name and last known address.”

Startled into a laugh, Mike shook his head. “Why in Hades would I do that? I don’t rat out my friends.”

“You will this time. Why? Because he is not your friend. Because Edith Ross died over six months ago. Someone got their hands on her imperial pension and she ended up in an indigent’s nursing home. She was still fighting, trying to discover who had swindled her, but when she received news that her grandson Michael had been shot to death by drug dealers in Novus Angelus, she gave up and signed the papers for early exit. Reports say she went peacefully.”

Mike had frozen in place. Bright blue eyes stared at Harvey out of a paper white face. Harvey gave him a few moments, looking back at him with an expression he could only hope approximated compassion.

“You’re lying,” Mike ground out in a quavering voice. “You’re just trying to manipulate me, to get me to tell you everything.”

“I’m telling you the truth. Your grandmother was interred in your parents’ crypt. Some of the nurses who were caring for her raised a small fund and had a plaque added for her grandson.”

Mike shook his head. “No. That’s -- No.” Shocked and disbelieving as Mike was, Harvey could see that his mind was still working, analyzing what he’d been told. “What did it say? The plaque.”

“What? Just your name. No, wait.” He consulted the file once more until he found what he was looking for. “You name over a pair of broken wings. Does that mean anything to you?”

He could see that it did, but Mike didn’t say what. He saw the exact moment when the boy’s stunned grief turned to understanding. Color flooded back into Mike’s cheeks and he stood slowly, moving to the window, shackles clinking dully. Harvey glanced at his watch, deciding to give Mike no more than three minutes before he moved this along. He was surprised when after less than a minute Mike whirled back around, eyes dark with rage.

“That bastard,” he spat out. “He was my best friend.”

“No. No he wasn’t.” Harvey felt mild surprise at the heat of his own anger over a depressing little soap opera which had zero affect on his own life. He took a deep breath. “From the little you’ve told me, I can already deduce that he is toxic and is in no way your friend. Frankly, I’m surprised that none of this sank into your freakish brain after he dragged you down at Columbiana.”

Mike waved a hand as if batting away Harvey’s word. “Fuck Columbiana. We were kids.” He wandered back to Harvey and sat down again, his posture stiff with tension. “Okay. Here’s my counteroffer. I tell you nothing about my six years away, and you don’t ask. That is off the table. But the name you’re looking for is Trevor. Trevor Evans.” Mike’s hands clenched into fists at his side. “As far as Trevor goes, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll do anything you want me to. I’ll be your...boy toy, if that what floats your boat. But you don’t pass that information about Trevor along. Just keep it between the two of us. More importantly, keep me in New York. Make sure whatever crappy sentence I get is here in the city.”

Harvey tilted his head, considering Mike. “I think I can arrange that. Want to tell me why?”

“Because I need to stick around long enough to rip Trevor’s filthy, lying tongue from his head.”

Fascinated, Harvey asked, “You know how to do that?”

Mike grimaced. “No. Gross.”

“So you were going for dramatic affect.”

Mike turned cold blue eyes on Harvey. “I’m serious. That asshole is going to pay for what he did to my grandmother.”

Harvey thought quickly. “I agree to all of that. However, I have three conditions of my own. First, we make damn sure that Trevor is the guilty party where you grandmother is concerned. That should be easy enough to determine. Second, any revenge on Trevor will be strictly within the letter of the law.” He raised a hand when Mike started to protest. “Third, your sentence, conditional upon approval by the adjudicator, will consist of a term of apprenticeship at the firm of Pearson Hardman, where you will convince all and sundry that you came straight from the pool of Harvard educated apprentices.”

He watched Mike’s face, and could tell that he was thinking hard, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard. “So, basically, you’re offering me a job?”

Harvey hid a smile. “Let’s be clear on that. You’ll end up working harder than a slave clone at a fast food restaurant. Your time and any skills you possess will belong to me.”

“And that whole boy toy thing?”

“Mike, this isn’t a joke.”

“Who would know my true status. Just you?” When Harvey nodded, Mike’s expression grew even more uncertain. “That’s pretty risky. Why would you do that?”

Unfortunately, Harvey couldn’t answer that, even to his own satisfaction. The truth was probably just simple boredom, but he wasn’t going to share that with Mike. “You let me worry about that. All you need to do is work hard and do as I say in all things. Think you can manage that?”

A long silence, and then, “Yes, sir.”

Harvey smiled. “Good boy.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Mike didn’t remember many details from his sentencing hearing. It wasn’t that his memory was malfunctioning, he simply wasn’t tuned in enough while it was happening to collect all of the specific, concrete images. He couldn’t focus. Too much raw emotion fired through his brain, leaving only random impressions: a large space divided in two by plexiglass which held scratches and smudges but didn’t hide the bleacher seating on the other side, which was about two-thirds full of people.

The crowd, which appeared to him only in brief flashes at the corners of his awareness, was about evenly composed of tourists, family members of the convicted, and those in the market for new indentures. That last group included seedy sex merchants, government contractors looking to fill their quota of menial laborers, and wealthy citizens whose needs could have been anything from a gardener to a French tutor to a new piece of live furniture.

A smothering fog of emotion and reaction had settled over his brain. Still, blazing like a beacon, Mike remained aware of Harvey at his side in his fancy suit, with his smoothly polished manner. Mike knelt beside him as custom dictated, while Harvey navigated their way through the labyrinthine legal system, ensuring that everything happened to the exact letter of the law. Mike found Harvey at once painfully attractive and utterly repugnant, representing as he did everything about the centuries old system of government and society that Mike despised. Harvey was successful, glib, arrogant, well off, smug....and, Mike had no doubt, that had all come at the expense of those that the empire trod underfoot daily. Worse, he was a spy and a collaborator who wanted to help destroy the rebels with whom Mike had become closely acquainted.

Just...why did he have to smell so good?

Beyond his peripheral awareness of his surroundings (and Harvey’s spicy aftershave), the main thing Mike remembered about the hearing was his own seething cloud of hate, and the disgust he felt for...everything -- for the process, for Harvey, and most of all, for Trevor, who had betrayed him and... _Zeus_ , he could barely stand to think about his grandmother.

She’d been his rock and his protector and in the end he had failed her. And -- _ah fuck it hurt so much to admit it_ \-- never mind that Trevor had been the direct cause of her death, it had been Mike who had left her to fend for herself. He had let her down, and a great deal of his disgust was directed at himself. Grammy had died, despairing and alone, and the only thing that could allow Mike to even begin to live with himself would be if he gave Trevor what he deserved.

_That bastard._

“Mike? Hey, wake up kid.”

He blinked, struggling to swim up out of his dark thoughts. Turning his gaze upwards, he realized that Harvey was giving him a funny look, and when he glanced up at the adjudicator, impatience had drawn her blunt features into a scowl. “What?” he asked blankly.

Harvey’s dark eyes flashed with annoyance. “This is the part where you agree to the terms of your sentence.”

He hadn’t been paying attention to the details, but he nodded anyway, watching with detached interest the way Harvey’s mouth twitched into a tight, disapproving curve. “Verbally, genius. Repeat after me. Yes, your honor, I agree and submit.”

Mike sat back a little on his heels, kept his eyes fixed on Harvey’s, and parroted thickly, “Yes, your honor, I agree and submit.” It felt strange to say the words, but as he did, some of the chaos swirling in his mind began to slow and dissipate, allowing clarity to slowly return.

_Definitely strange._

Stranger still, glib Harvey appeared momentarily taken aback. He opened his mouth to reply, seemed to change his mind and snapped his lips together. They simultaneously broke their locked gaze and each stared up at the adjudicator. She gave a bemused shake of her head, said, “Well, shit. Close enough,” and banged her gavel. “Sentence is duly recorded and registered with the court. See the clerk down the hall to sign the contract. Next case.”

Mike climbed stiffly to his feet. As they left the courtroom, walking in silence, Mike could almost feel the warm weight of Harvey’s hand on his arm, guiding him, even though he never touched him. Nerves skittered through him, stirring uneasily in his belly. It wasn’t guilt, he lectured himself firmly, and definitely not remorse about the lies he had told Harvey, that he wouldn’t go looking for Trevor, wouldn’t exact revenge on his own.

Rachel had warned him not to trust his advocate, and he knew he couldn’t afford to. Complicating matters was the strange side deal Harvey had proposed. Mike hadn’t yet figured out Harvey’s angle in their agreement, and at the moment he couldn’t spare the energy to care.

The tripartite indenture of retainer awaited them in the clerk’s office. Mike read through it rapidly, finding nothing that surprised him. The contract ran for seven years, the typical length. As was usual, the term of service could be either shortened or lengthened depending on Mike’s behavior. Some innate part of him insisted that he wished to be good. It absolutely had nothing to do with Harvey’s earlier approving murmur. “Good boy,” he’d said, and Mike had felt a sudden desire to earn that, to deserve it, but he was already formulating plans which could land him in scalding water.

They both signed all three parts and then the clerk notarized it (shooting Mike interested glances that he didn’t bother to even begin to interpret) and separated it into three pieces, one for Mike, one for Harvey and one for the recording office. Each section had a jagged edge, a throwback to the days when contracts were prepared long distance and the parties needed a way to identify one another when they finally met by lining up the edges.

After the brief signing ceremony, Mike was handed over to Harvey’s custody, along with two copies of the contract, Mike’s documentation, and the hand-held GPS device keyed into the locater chip embedded beneath the Criminal ID number tattooed on Mike’s bicep. Mike was relieved when Harvey declined use of the traditional collar and leash, not that it would have been Mike’s first time wearing a collar, but it was different when you weren’t play-acting.

He had assumed that after the sentencing, Harvey would have him registered at some tragic apprentice’s dormitory, complete with house mother, curfew and rules a mile long. And that would have been fine with Mike. He knew how to skirt rules and curfews and house mothers. So when Harvey instead herded him outside to where a shiny black Medici town car waited, and then indicated that he should sit in the back with Harvey, he balked.

“What is this?” he asked, unable to keep the hostility from his voice. “My contract doesn’t say anything about car sex.”

Harvey gave him a withering look. “Don’t flatter yourself. We have things to discuss, and it’s easier to do that with you sitting next to me, not up front with Ray.” Then he smiled. “Of course, if that’s something that interests you, I suppose you can listen just as well with your mouth full.”

Mike shook his heard and folded himself into the backseat, feeling vaguely insulted. The driver’s dark, amused eyes regarded himself for a moment in the rear view mirror, and then the car pulled into traffic.

Harvey was quiet for several blocks, tapping his fingers on his thigh to the scattered beat of the jazz drifting from the car’s speakers. Finally, he said, “I have to get back to the office. You can lay low at my place until we get you some clothes that don’t announce your status quite as eloquently as those do.”

Mike gave Harvey’s suit a skeptical once-over. “You realize I’m a little short on cash right now. As in completely dependent on you.”

Harvey’s eyes went dark with scorn, and damn if Mike didn’t find that absurdly sexy.

“No shit, Captain Obvious. I did read the contract before I signed it. During the terms of your indenture, you have no rights to property other than what I see fit to give you, and even then it’s merely a loan. In your case, things are going to be a little tricky.”

“Because I’ll be getting a paycheck?”

Harvey’s wide mouth quirked down on one side. “Yes. About that....”

“Having regrets about our deal? I figured you might, once you thought things through. You want to pass me off as legit, but I’m not allowed to apply for work, or even open a bank account.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure something out.”

The car made a sharp right turn before pulling to a curb in front of a subdivided tower palazzo which Mike recognized as one of the most prestigious -- and pricey -- locations in Manhattan. As he and Harvey exited the car, it took a strong mental effort not to crane his neck and gawk at the beautiful, soaring architecture, all faced with expensive ivory colored marble and topped with Corinthian style flourishes. A doorman waited with the glass doors opened for them. He greeted Harvey and gave Mike only the briefest of glances. If he was surprised by what “Mr. Specter” had dragged home with him, he didn’t let it show.

The inside of the building had been completely gutted and rehabbed, with plush, modern furnishings that belied the very traditional looking exterior. The elevator ride up to the penthouse was silent. Once inside, Harvey nodded toward the kitchen, instructing Mike to find something to eat, and then pulled out his phone.

Mike pillaged the refrigerator and cupboards, fixing two sandwiches with leftover roast chicken and some sort of artisanal cheese which he couldn’t have named, but which smelled appropriately vile. He loaded them up with oily vegetables he found in a glass container, grabbed two bottles of beer and wandered back out to the living room to find Harvey glancing impatiently at his gold Venetian watch.

“I’ve made arr -- ” He paused, staring at the two plates and two bottles Mike was juggling. “Didn’t they feed you in prison?”

“What? Yeah. Sometimes. And sometimes I actually got to eat it myself. But one of these is for you.”

He tried to hand a plate to Harvey, who lifted the top slice of sourdough and made a face. “Thank the gods I didn’t contract you as my chef. I’ll get something on my way back to work. Eat them both yourself. No offense, but a few extra calories would do you some good.”

Mike shrugged and perched on the leather sofa. “Suit yourself.” He took an unnecessarily large bite of one sandwich and grinned up at Harvey. “Mmm. Good.”

Harvey gave him a disgusted look and snatched both bottles of beer from Mike before he could react.

“Hey! Calories!”

“Maybe later. Although I’m sure you’ll recall that your contract forbids alcohol.”

“Bah. Who pays attention to that boilerplate nonsense?”

Harvey sighed deeply. “I do. And you will too, starting tomorrow. So eat your sandwiches and sit tight. My tailor has agreed to make a very rare -- and very expensive -- house call. Please try not frighten him to death.”

Starting to feel better with some decent food inside him, Mike grinned. “Will he be touching me inappropriately?”

“Repeatedly and with great skill. Enjoy it while you can, because once I put you to work I’ll probably have to invoke the chastity clause in your contract.”

Mike had a scathing comeback on the tip of his tongue, but Harvey was already at the door. “Behave yourself,” he said, opened the door, and was gone.

Mike took another bite of his sandwich, muttering, “You behave _your_ self.” He chewed, thought longingly of the beer in the refrigerator, and considered nosing around for the supply of expensive liquor, liqueurs and pharmaceuticals that Harvey undoubtedly had stashed around the place somewhere. Chemical oblivion held a high appeal at the moment, but he decided that a long hot shower was first on his agenda. The municipal jail didn’t allow for regular showers, and the few he’d been allowed had been nightmares of stress and bodily harm. He’d managed to keep his ass untouched, but the career thugs he encountered did not find his pathetic conviction for cheating intimidating enough to spare him the shoves and trips and covert and not so covert punches and slaps he’d received. The communal shower had not been the only place he’d been targeted, but it had been the worst.

Harvey’s huge shower had every fancy feature Mike could have dreamed up and more: rain-head, body-sprays, detachable shower-heads in three different shapes, one more intriguing than the next, and beautiful mosaic tiles depicting mythological beasts in the ancient style. Snooping through Harvey’s cabinets and drawers, he found a state of the art electric razor lying next to a straight razor and leather strop. He laughed in surprise and pleasure at the discovery of an old-fashioned strigil which he was pretty sure wasn’t a reproduction. A sweet clone boy in Denver had introduced him to the weird luxury of the bathing tool during his three month stay there. Now, just because he could, he stripped out of his prison clothes, rubbed perfumed oil all over himself, and scraped away the worst of the accumulated grime. Then he cranked up all of the sprays and shower-heads and just stood there, limbs spread like Vetruvian Man, and let the water wash the filth away.

His muscles loosened beneath the heat and steam, and the reality of all that had happened began to sink in. Grammy was dead.

_Grammy committed suicide._

He was a convicted indenture, dependent for every single aspect of his life for the next seven years on a man he couldn’t trust.

And Trevor....

His best friend, first lover, the one person he’d thought he could trust with his life....

He didn’t realize at first that he was crying. The spray above him and to the sides washed the tears from his face as quickly as they fell. He grabbed an expensive bar of soap, lathered up his hands and scrubbed everywhere, every crack and crevice, all the while feeling as if he were performing a ritual, preparing himself for his new life. His new identity.

Just Mike. No longer a citizen.

He rinsed the soap away, tipped his face to the ceiling and let the rest of the tears wash away, down the drain, and turned off the water.

_Enough. The past is done. Time to move forward. Time to find Trevor and make him pay._

Feeling hollow but refreshed, he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel.

“You need a haircut,” said a lightly accented voice.

Mike whirled toward the door to find himself being assessed by an arrogant looking little man with dark hair, spectacles, and a prominent nose. He wore an overly styled suit in dove grey. “Who the hell are you?”

“You’re too skinny. You have the posture of a sloth. And I am Rene.”

“Harvey’s tailor?” Mike guessed.

“Stop talking and drop the towel. At least you’re clean. I will measure you right there where you stand.”

“Harvey wasn’t kidding about you.”

“Stop. Talking. I’m walking the razor’s edge right now so let’s get this over with as quickly as possible.”

Mike opened his mouth and then snapped it shut at Rene’s unhinged glare.

Rene set to work taking measurements and jotting them on a notepad. He worked rapidly, but Mike was shivering by the time he had finished. When Rene’s tape measure disappeared somewhere inside his pretty suit, Mike sagged in relief and reached for his clothes, which still sat in a heap on the floor.

“No, no, no,” said Rene, and took possession of the clothes, lifting them with a pair of plastic tongs and depositing them in what appeared to be a toxic waste disposal bag. “Harvey predicted you would try that. I’m to inform you that the armoire in the second bedroom holds temporary clothes that should fit you.”

“And what about -- ” Mike gestured at Rene and then back towards his own inseam.

“One complete outfit day after tomorrow. The rest in one week’s time.” And that was that. He turned and left without another word.

Mike exhaled noisily, wondering if Rene’s attitude was due to Mike’s new status, or if the tailor was a supercilious dick to everyone. Deciding it didn’t matter, he went in search of something to wear. Since he wouldn’t be going anywhere, he settled for a comfortable pair of pajama pants, t-shirt, and a flannel bathrobe.

He hunted up a net book and settled on the couch with a bag of microwaved popcorn and a glass of ice water. The beer still called his name -- screamed it, actually -- but he was determined to act the well-behaved indentured servant, at least for now. Starting an on-line search for Trevor didn’t precisely fall in the well-behaved category, but after he finished and deleted the search history, Harvey would be none the wiser. Stretched out full length, net book balanced on his chest and popcorn on the ground at his side, he pulled up the search engine Minerva and typed in “Trevor Evans.”

It took him perhaps ten minutes and then, “I got you, fucker,” he muttered.


	6. Chapter 6

“Harvey, you can’t be serious.” Jessica was wearing her amused basilisk stare, and Harvey knew better than to be fooled by the “amused” part. They were in Jessica’s office, Jessica perched on the edge of her desk, with Harvey standing in front of her, trying not to fidget or pace. Only Jessica could make him feel so off-balance.

“You said you’d hear me out,” he said, and waited. When she gave a half nod, he took it as his signal to continue pleading Mike’s -- and his own -- case. “It’s like the gods delivered the kid to us. He’s been out in the provinces, Jessica, lived off-grid for six years. That alone should make him worth the risk. You know as well as I do that nobody’s reporting what’s really going on out there. Think of all we could learn from talking to him. And then there’s his memory. It’s incredible. Downright freakish.”

Jessica let loose with a groan and gave Harvey a look of disgust. “Don’t even try that on me. That memory palace bullshit has been discredited dozens of time in the last few years. I’m surprised at you, Harvey. I can’t believe you got suckered like that.”

Harvey gave her a look that would have dissolved a lesser person’s face. “Please. Nobody suckers me. And what Mike does? It’s not a parlor trick. It’s...organic or something. I tested him and you’ll just have to trust me when I tell you the kid has a flawless memory.” He shook his head. “It’s not just the memory thing, though. The kid’s smart. Loyal. Tough and a little bit ruthless. He might be exactly what you’ve been looking for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Harvey.”

He lowered his voice instinctively, although he knew Jessica routinely swept her office for electronic ears. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. I understand the risks involved in passing Mike off as a Harvard apprentice. The contract states he is a work-study indenture, and all it would take is one curious pair of eyes accessing a copy from the records office to expose the fraud.”

Jessica shook her head. “Please do not suggest what I think you’re about to suggest.”

“The great thing about computerized records, is that with the right amount of gold crossing the right palm, they can be altered.”

“Dammit, Harvey, I will not jeopardize my firm’s imperial license just so you can indulge some reckless, childish whim of yours.” She eyed him shrewdly. “I know you as well as anyone, so be honest with me. Is the boy good-looking? Is this about you arranging for some convenient, live-in bed rights?”

Ignoring how appealing that sounded, Harvey frowned at her “Of course not. And as well as you know me, I know you, and based on your loyalties and ambitions, it wouldn’t be difficult to guess who benefits from all of your untraceable donations.” He paced over to her desk and perched right next to her on its edge, lowering his voice even further. “I know all about your hatred for the clone farms and the clone laws, how you would love to see the corrupt, exploitive system come crashing down. I haven’t missed how hard you’ve worked, always behind the scenes, to move the law in a more compassionate direction, to ensure -- ”

“Stop right there, Harvey. What I told you was in strictest confidence. Plus I was drunk.” She pursed her lips as if struggling to maintain her calm exterior. “You always were a nosy sonofabitch. You don’t fool me for a second, though. Why don’t you just admit that you believe in the same things I do?”

He gave her a look of feigned horror. ”That is beyond offensive.”

“Uh huh.” She gave him an eloquent look and he shifted uncomfortably. “Harvey, stop dicking around and tell me what you want and why.”

”I thought I already did. Fine. I want Mike to come work for me as my apprentice. Why? Because I see potential in him. A mind like his deserves better than what he’s been dealt. Also, if I have to work with one of those Harvard douches, I won’t be held responsible for my actions. And....” This was hard to admit, but he forced himself. ”If I can help you poke a figurative finger in the imperial eye, I might find that...satisfactory.”

An arched eyebrow warned him that she wasn’t buying it. “You talk a good game, Harvey. But you are out of your godsdamned mind if you thought for one second that I’d support you in such blatant fraud.”

“Jessica --”

“No. It’s not happening. But I will allow you this. You go back down the hall and choose one of those Harvard douches. I don’t care how. Flip a coin. Pin a tail on one of their asses. But you are going to hire one of them today. As for your your little indenture boy, I’ll allow you to work with him, if that’s what you really want. He can bring you coffee and fetch your meals and relieve your stress, but he won’t be practicing law at my firm.”

“He’s not going to be satisfied with that. I promised him -- ”

“Then that was your mistake. And his. Is there anything I’ve said that you don’t understand?”

“No. You’ve been crystal clear.”

“Good. One more thing: don’t you ever try to manipulate me by bringing up my secrets. If you do, I won’t hesitate to whisper _your_ secrets in places you do not want them known.” She walked to the door and opened it for him. “I can’t wait to meet your new apprentice. And I’m sure I’ll find your new servant boy amusing. Just make sure he’s housebroken before you let him into the firm.”

It took a great effort of will to remain silent, but Harvey managed it, and marched out of Jessica’s office, back straight, and lips tight.

 

*****

 

Mike woke with a muttered curse, sitting abruptly and just barely catching the net book before it slid from his chest and onto the floor. He heard a key in the the front door lock, and told himself that’s what had woken him up, not the dream. He shook off the fading, familiar images -- of shadows chasing him from room to to room in a dark, endless building -- and just had the presence of mind to shut the lid on the smirking face of Trevor which had popped up on the screen, before the door opened and Harvey appeared, carrying a large shopping bag.

“Hi,”said Mike.

Harvey dropped heavily into the chair across from him and tossed the bag at his feet. “That’s for you” He leaned back, closed his eyes,and loosened his tie.

Mike set the net book on the floor and reached warily for the bag. He opened it and found it full of clothes. No, not just clothes, uniforms. Nice, higher quality uniforms, but still government approved, following all of the required guidelines, loose fitting, without buttons or zippers or belts. Beige for home, olive green for work, black for formal occasions. At the bottom of the bag he found three matching pairs of sneakers, a stack of underwear, and the mandated patches indicating his crimes and sentence.

“What’s all this?” he asked, looking up in confusion. Harvey looked pissed off, eyes fixed on the floor between his feet. Realization dawned. “Your boss didn’t go for it.” He tried to ignore the burn of disappointment, to at the very least keep it off of his face, but it wasn’t easy.

“To put it mildly.” Harvey finally looked up. “So. New plan. You can still work for me, but not as my apprentice.”

Mike ran a hand through his hair. “Okay.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Disappointed? Had he really been looking forward to practicing law as an apprentice advocate alongside an imperial stooge like Harvey? He realized with some surprise that yes, he had been looking forward to it. He’d never told anyone, except for his grandmother, that he’d hoped one day to join the Advocates Guild. That had been before Trevor, and that thrice-damned alchemy test. He looked up to find Harvey watching him closely, and realized he was waiting for some kind of reaction from Mike. “I guess it doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “But the contract clearly specifies a work-study arrangement.”

“For now, you’re permitted to accompany me to the office, but not as my apprentice, as my...something else. Man servant, I guess. As for the ‘study’ part, I had my assistant sign you up for some on-line course work. With your mind, that should be a walk in the park. You can split your time between that and doing personal things for me. If it happens that some of my case work needs...special attention...you can give it a try.”

Mike was still processing the “man servant” part, trying and failing not to blush. Rationally, he understood that it meant performing menial tasks such as serving coffee and lunch and probably running errands, getting Harvey’s suits cleaned, and...shit, who knew what else? It’s not like he’d ever been employed in that capacity before. Still, the words “man servant” had him suddenly picturing all sorts of filthy things, and this was Harvey Specter after, which made it all kinds of wrong.

Then he realized what else Harvey was implying. “Wait. Back up. You were explicitly turned down by Jessica Pearson, and you’re saying that you _still_ want to try to pass me off as a fake advocate?”

“No,” said Harvey, “that’s not what I said. But basically, yes.”

Mike stood up, laughing lightly, and paced over to the window which looked out over the city. “Do you dislike Jessica so much, or are you simply a compulsive risk-taker?”

Harvey didn’t answer right away. After a time, Mike heard the clink of glass and the sound of pouring liquid and figured that Harvey had broken out the alcohol. He wanted to ask for a drink, but kept quiet.

“My motives,” said Harvey finally, “are none of your concern. All you have to do is what I tell you, when I tell you to do it. And if anyone should happen upon you with your hands on a legal document, do your best to behave like the family dog that just learned to dance on its hind legs.”

Mike nodded without turning around. He could do that. It didn’t really matter. None of it did. The surreptitious legal work might be entertaining, but even if he had to darn Harvey’s socks and turn down his bed, he would gladly do it while he planned what to do about Trevor. And judging by how he envisioned his service to Harvey, it should be easy enough to carve out pockets of free time in which to pursue his revenge on Trevor.

He turned around to face Harvey once more. “Fine. I’ll wear the ugly uniforms and play village idiot for you. What about Trevor, though? I haven’t forgot about what he did, even if you have.”

Dark eyes regarded him somberly. “I haven’t forgot. If you want to move against him, it will happen strictly within the framework of the law. I’m not going to stand for any hired Stranglers or Poisoners, or Death-Hexing.”

“Like I could afford that,” Mike scoffed. “I’m penniless, remember? And really -- Death-Hexing? Who even does that anymore.”

“Still, you’re going to have to be patient while I build a strong case against him. Now, I made some phone calls while I was at work, and a preliminary investigation into your grandmother’s pension money is already in progress. Once I have a basic idea of what happened, it should be as simple as following the money. If the trail leads back to this Trevor, well, embezzlement is a charge that will stick pretty hard.”

Mike mulled over what Harvey had said. It sounded reasonable, except.... “What about my grandmother’s death? Trevor may not have been the one that pushed the plunger on her farewell cocktail, but he may as well have. If he’s only convicted for embezzling, he’ll get his seven years and that’s it. Hades, with his IT experience, MedusaSoft will probably snap him up, use him for seven years, and then offer him some plush position when he becomes a free agent.”

Harvey gave a deep sigh and drank from his glass. “No, it’s not a fair system, is it? But it’s what we’ve got to work with. Not much we can do about that, is there?” Harvey seemed to ask the question casually, repeating a truism they’d both heard too often. He kept staring at Mike though, a deeper, more complex question in his eyes.

Mike knotted the tie around his bathrobe and chewed on his lower lip. _Was_ there anything they could really do about the system? He thought about his rebel buddies out west. While on-line today, he’d searched for any stories about the raid they’d been planning and which should have taken place about a week ago, if they’d kept to their original schedule. He hadn’t found so much as a word. The website for the Anderson Clone Ranch had stared back at him, as blandly, cheerfully commercial as ever.

Of course, all of the various media were state run, and the web was swept and sanitized constantly. Even if small forays were made against the empire, what could did they do in the long run? He’d argued this point many time around campfires, over basement beer and weak weed, but now that he was once more ensconced within the cold, darkly beating heart of power, the argument seemed less academic and more ominous.

“No,” he finally said, since Harvey seemed to be waiting for an answer. “Nothing we can do but bend over and take it.”

Harvey’s eyes flickered -- with humor? disappointment? -- and he gave a low grunt. “Yeah. Maybe.” He lifted his drink as if about to make a toast, but instead said, “Fix yourself one, if you want. Just for tonight. Starting tomorrow, you’re going to be the best behaved indenture Pearson Hardman has ever seen.”

“Okay.” Mike found an empty glass and poured from the the cut crystal decanter Harvey had left on the coffee table. It turned out to be real French brandy, not the fake stuff from New Jersey. He flopped back down on the sofa and they sat quietly together. Mike ruminated idly on the puzzle that was Harvey Specter, and savored his expensive brandy, enjoying every single illegal drop.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow posting on this. It probably won't get any faster anytime soon, so thanks for your patience, if you're still reading. And if you are still reading, I hope you enjoy it. The story is a little nuts, I admit, but I'm having a lot of fun with it.

When Mike followed Harvey into Pearson Hardman the next morning, he wasn’t sure what to expect. The workspace was immaculately decorated in mod-classic, which was no surprise. He simply wasn’t prepared for the reactions of the employees to the sight of him, and the sudden _reality_ of what he had become, which was reflected back at him in the expressions of the people they passed in the hallway on the way to Harvey’s office.

He felt conspicuous in his sleeveless olive green uniform, massive new tattoo proclaiming his transgressions. Harvey had even insisted he wear a collar, which Mike tugged at resentfully as he followed Harvey on what seemed an unnecessarily long, circuitous path past staring assistants and apprentices and other advocates’ lushly appointed offices. He suspected that Harvey had taken the long way from the elevator, the better to make some obscure point, and he began to perspire in his uniform as he grew all too aware that he didn’t belong here, did not fit in. Every other person he saw wore an expensive suit or designer dress. He told himself it didn’t matter, but couldn’t help wondering what their reactions to him would have been if he’d been allowed to wear one of Rene’s creations.

A balding, dark-haired man stepped into their path to confront Harvey.

“What the hell is this?” he practically hissed. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Louis,” said Harvey with fake affability, “meet Mike. He’ll be helping me out. Mike, this is Louis Litt. Ignore anything he says.”

Louis eyed Mike up and down. “Unacceptable. Jessica will never allow this.”

“Jessica knows about Mike, and has already granted permission for him to be here.”

Louis’ jaw worked as if too many words vied for a chance to leave his mouth. “But we only take apprentices from Harvard. Even if he had his degree, which is doubtful, his status invalidates it. Did you tell Jessica about….” He flapped a hand at Mike’s tattoo, then up and down, indicating the uniform. “We don’t allow this at Pearson Hardman. What were you thinking?”

Harvey stepped closer to Mike and placed a protective hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, Louis. He’s not my apprentice. I took him on as my indenture. He won’t be practicing law, just seeing to my personal needs.”

“Your – Oh my gods, Harvey, you were just supposed to represent him at sentencing, not adopt him.” His rat-like features squinched with distaste. “Is he even safe to have around?”

Harvey rolled his eyes and grabbed Mike’s arm. “Come on, Mike, I want you to meet Donna.”

“I’m registering an objection with Jessica,” Louis called after them.

“You do that,” answered Harvey. His grip on Mike had become painful, and when they stopped in front of a desk occupied by a lovely red-haired woman, and Harvey let him go, Mike rubbed his arm discreetly.

The woman, who Mike assumed was Donna, gazed at Mike, head tilted in the manner of a curious feline. “Is this him?” she asked, seeming to drink in every detail all at once.

“Donna, this is Mike. Mike, you should just go ahead and add Donna to your pantheon of goddesses and worship her like the deity she believes herself to be. Otherwise your life will not be worth living.”

Mike backed up half a step. “Okay.”

“Harvey, you’re scaring him.” Donna stood up and walked slowly around Mike, dragging a finger across his tattoo and sniffing his neck. “Mm. Delicious.” She batted her eyes at Harvey, pouting. “Now I want one, too.”

“Don’t let his looks fool you. He eats twice his weight in food and he snores like a howler monkey.”

“As long as he doesn’t throw his poop.”

“Hey,” Mike interjected, “I’m standing right here.”

Ignoring him, Donna said, “I get to order him around, right?”

As he turned and walked into his office, Harvey said, “As long as you don’t break him, and clean him up when you’re done.”

Mike’s mouth fell open. “That’s – come on you guys. Totally inappropriate.”

Donna gave him a close-mouthed smile and jerked her head toward the office. “Better get in there before I’m tempted to… _do_ …things to you.” One eyebrow quirked suggestively.

Mike slid carefully around her, never taking his eyes off of her face.

“Sit,” ordered Harvey, and that was when Mike saw the corner of the office which had evidently been prepared for him. A wooden chair bolted to a minuscule desk – just like at his middle school – sat next to a thin cotton pallet with a blanket folded at one end and an airline-sized pillow at the other. A metal ring had been bolted into the base of the wall, and a long, thin chain attached to the ring lay coiled on the ground. Sitting next to that was what appeared to be a brand new laptop computer.

Mike vacillated for half a second between the chair and the pallet and opted for the chair. He’d been expecting it since he walked into the room, but still felt his spirits plunge even lower when Harvey clipped the chain to the small ring in his collar, attached a tiny lock, and dropped the key to the lock into his vest pocket. Most indenture postings didn’t require restraint, but it seemed he was to be considered as a mad dog set among the civilized denizens of Pearson Hardman.

He glared up at Harvey, feeling sulky. “I’m not violent, you know. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life.” _Not yet, anyway,_ whispered a dark voice inside of him.

Harvey seated himself across the room behind his desk and pulled a stack of file folders in front of himself. “Your tattoo says otherwise. It’s only temporary, until your probationary period concludes. And if you read the contract, you know when that will be.”

Mike slid down a little on the uncomfortable seat, legs stretched in front of him. “Ninety days. A freaking eternity.”

“You’ll live. Now leave me alone and let me work. Your laptop’s all set up and ready to go. Get busy on your coursework. I believe Donna signed you up for _History of the Schismatic Wars_ , _Erotic Poetry_ and _Alchemy 101_. If you need to use the bathroom, just raise your hand.”

Mike thunked his head down on the desk. Hearing Harvey’s amused chuckle, he gave an overly dramatic groan and wondered how difficult it would be to strangle himself with his leash.

 

******

 

Having Mike chained up in the corner of his office proved more distracting than Harvey had expected. The boy stayed quiet for most of the morning, tapping and clicking away on his computer, presumably intent upon his on-line classes. Harvey couldn’t seem to keep himself from glancing over every few minutes to study the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way he chewed on his pen, and _sucked_ on it with hollowed cheeks.

The third time that Mike glanced up and caught him staring, he decided he needed to stretch his legs. “I’ll be back in a while,” he said. “If you need anything ask Donna. I’ll leave her the key.”

“How? I’m….” Mike lifted the chain and jingled it.

“Just speak her name. She hears everything that goes on in here.”

“Oh. Where are you going? Can I come with you?”

“None of your business, and no. Any other questions?”

“When do I start my man servant duties? And when do I, you know – “ He lowered his voice. “When do I start not pretending to be a pretend advocate? Or is it pretending to _not_ be a pretend not-advocate. Or – “

“Shut up.”

“I can hear you,” Donna piped up from the hallway.

“You too,” said Harvey. He focused his attention back on Mike. “Look, you need to be patient. Get used to the office and the routine. We’ll ease into that other stuff when I think it’s time.”

Mike still appeared frustrated, and he finally spoke in a whisper quiet enough that Harvey had to move closer to hear him. “What about that other stuff?” _Trevor,_ he mouthed.

“Wheels are in motion. Inquiries are being made. Don’t worry. And I repeat: be patient. In the meantime, be a good boy. You can have some juice and a nap if you do all of your homework.”

As he was leaving, he heard Mike’s parting shot. “And what if I don’t? I’m grounded? Oh, that’s right. I already am.”

 

******

 

As humiliating as it was to be chained to a middle school desk, doing coursework he could have breezed through when he was ten (and really, _Alchemy 101_? The course he’d cheated on at Columbiana? Hilarious), when Harvey had been gone for two hours, nature had the ill manners to call, and Mike had to ask Donna to release him so he could visit the men’s room. Worse, she stationed herself outside the door, as if he were planning to flee or run amok in the office if she let him out of her sight.

When he exited the rest room, he found Donna engaged in conversation with a gorgeous young woman, and he froze, shocked.

“Rachel?” he asked, incredulous.

She turned to him, eyes devoid of both warmth and recognition. “Yes? And you would be…?”

She didn’t know him. Or she didn’t want Donna to know she knew him. Before Mike could answer her question, Donna interceded. “This is Mike. He belongs to Harvey. I was just taking him for a walk.” She picked up the end of his chain, wrapped it around her fist, and made a kissy-face at Mike. “Who’s a good boy?”

“Um. I am? No. Don’t…oh, okay.” He stood still and let Donna scratch behind his ear. Rachel stood by, appearing amused and a little scandalized.

And how weird was that? She looked like Rachel. No, she was identical to Rachel, answered to the same name, but – unless she was an amazing actress – she appeared not to recognize Mike at all.

Then it clicked. They must be clones. Rachel One, the med tech, knew about the rebels and appeared to be working either for or with them, which made sense. Liberated clones often joined the movement.

This Rachel, though, Rachel Two…Mike couldn’t imagine her getting involved in something like that. She was…perfection. Impeccable. She was dressed elegantly but with a sexy flair that would have had his jaw on the floor if she was his type. She ignored him with haughty disdain, but became almost girlish when she and Donna shared a joke. They had their heads together, whispering and giggling, and he realized they were laughing about him. He gave a resigned sigh.

“Do you think we could go back now?” he asked Donna.

She seemed to consider. “I could really use an exotic coffee beverage. Too bad you aren’t cleared to run errands on your own yet.”

“I was just on my way downstairs,” offered Rachel. “I’d be happy to….” She trailed off when Donna thrust the end of the leash into her hand. “Oh, no, I meant --”

But Donna gave her a frenetic smile, complete with crazy eyes. “Don’t forget the whipped cream,” she said, and Mike wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to Rachel. Not that it mattered.

As Donna sashayed back down the hall, an uncomfortable silence grew between Mike and Rachel. She broke it by giving his leash an ungentle tug. “Come on,” she ordered. “We have to talk.”

He had to scramble to keep up. Even in four inch stiletto heels she outpaced him on the way to the elevator.

 

Once they were outside, Rachel walked him far enough away from the building to be reasonably sure they wouldn’t be overheard. Then she dragged him into an alley and shoved him against the wall. “What do you know?” she hissed.

His mind blanked out at the question. “Lots of things?”

“You acted like you recognized me. Why?”

She seemed genuinely angry with him. Strange. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I met someone recently who looked a lot like you. My mistake.”

She glared at him, mouth clenched, and then all at once she seemed to deflate. She sagged and then moved beside him to lean against the wall, careless of the grimy surface against the fine fabric of her skirt and blouse. “Shit. _Shit._ I knew this would happen one day. Who was she? Where did you meet her? Oh, gods, she’s not a criminal like you, is she?”

“No.” Mike almost shouted the word. “She was great. Warm. Helpful.”

Instead of calming her down, his words had her looking even more horrified. “No no no. Please tell me you didn’t….” She made an obscene gesture with her hands.

“If that’s supposed to mean, ‘did you fuck her?’, the answer is no. What would it matter anyway? You’re not the same person. In spite of the idiotic clone laws, neither of you is responsible for the others’ actions.”

She closed her eyes, leaned her head back and groaned. “So you figured it out. I wasn’t sure.” She opened her eyes and grabbed his arm. “Please don’t tell Harvey. Don’t tell anyone. I can’t lose this job.”

“No! Of course I won’t tell. Your secret is safe with me. But, can I just say, _wow_. You made it through Harvard and landed your advocate job and no one ever found out?”

Now she looked at him as if he was the village idiot. “Harvard? No, stupid. I’m not an advocate. I’m a paralegal. Not that I wouldn’t love to get into Harvard, but they have the most stringent genetic testing on the planet. I have no desire to end up back at the farm.” She shuddered, her gaze distant, as if reliving unpleasant memories.

Mike wished he knew what to say or do to comfort her, but he’d never been good with girls, especially pretty girls.

“Can I ask you something?” she finally said, turning to face him. “My...sister. Was she nice?”

“Yeah. She was extremely nice. And she’s no criminal. She’s a med-tech for the court system.” He left out the part about her conspiring with rebels. No need to worry Rachel Two unnecessarily. “Shouldn’t we be getting Donna her coffee?”

Rachel laughed, and suddenly she seemed more like Rachel One. “Scared of her, are you?”

“Damn straight.”

“Smart guy. Okay, I’ll show you her favorite coffee place.”

They started walking, and suddenly remembering, Mike grimaced. “I should probably tell you I don’t have any money.”

That only made Rachel laugh again. “Zeus, what a loser. Don’t worry, I’ve got it this time. But you owe me, and you _will_ pay up.”

Mike nodded. “I will.” All at once, he felt happy. Maybe being Harvey’s indenture wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“So, you’re my new apprentice.”  Harvey crossed his arms and stared down at the pretty young blonde woman with the hard eyes and haughty expression.  “What’s your name?”

Her lips tightened, but the next second she was smiling blandly and holding out her hand across the ledge of the cubicle.  “Katrina Orsini.”

_Orsini_.  One of the oldest, richest and most powerful families in the empire.  Fantastic.  Harvey scowled.  “I see.  A word of warning: don’t expect your family name to bring you any preferential treatment at Pearson Hardman.  You’ll be working harder than you ever have in your life.  If you don’t pull your weight, you’re out.”

She gave a curt nod.  “That won't be a problem.  I ranked number two in my apprentice pool at Harvard.  I have no doubts that I’ll be able to handle whatever you decide to throw at me.”

“Number two?  With your connections?  How did you manage to miss out on number one?”

Her genial façade slipped briefly.  “The Rothschild heir turned out to be more cutthroat than I anticipated.”  She smiled again without warmth.  “A mistake I won’t make twice.”

Harvey sighed.  Legal intrigues were one thing – something he thrived on – but these centuries’ old political rivalries and intrigues held no appeal for him.  “The last I checked, there are no Rothschilds on staff at this firm.  Save any backstabbing and career sabotage for your free time.  By the way, don’t expect to have much free time while you’re working for me.  I'll expect you to keep your phone on and charged at all times.  And you’ll want to keep at least one change of clothes here, just in case.  Any questions?”

Katrina’s cheeks had pinked slightly, and her expression held a hard, irritated edge.  “Just one:  when do we start?”  Her smile was sharp and predatory, and Harvey wondered if Donna had selected her because of the likelihood that she would develop into an excellent advocate, or because she knew that Harvey would find her as irritating as he was already starting to.  He began to regret not showing up for the interviews.

Suppressing the urge to growl, he said, “After you’ve completed all of the paperwork HR gave you – “

“All done.”

“All right.  Find Louis Litt and – “

“Louis already played his ridiculous little hazing gag on me.”

“Ah.”  Louis liked to inject a bit of fear into new associates by fake-firing a fake associate in front of them.  The stunt did not appear to have had any effect on the icy Ms. Orsini.  Harvey had been resistant to the notion of taking on an apprentice, but he now acknowledged to himself that this young woman appeared to at least have the backbone required to work with him, and might end up proving useful.  “Well then, come with me back to my office and I’ll familiarize you with some of my current cases.”

 

When they entered his office, Harvey’s gaze immediately went to Mike.  The boy had moved from the desk to the pallet, and was stretched out on his back with his arms crossed behind his head.  Mike glanced at the doorway, then rose slowly to a seated position, his eyes darting between Harvey and Katrina.

Katrina, for her part, had come to a halt, her expression and body language both radiating hostility.  “What,” she hissed, “is that?”

Mike’s mouth fell open in a dumbfounded look that might have been amusing under other circumstances.  When he drew a breath, probably to make some unwise comment, Harvey cut him off.

“Not so much an ‘it’ as a ‘he.’  Katrina, this is Mike, my indenture.  Mike, meet my apprentice, Katrina Orsini.  And before you say anything stupid and bigoted, Miss Orsini, Mike is not a threat to you, and is chained only because of the firm’s mandatory 90-day probationary period.”

“He has the horned bull tattoo,” she pointed out, sneering.  “The symbol for aggression.”

Harvey smiled thinly.  “Being thoroughly familiar with his file, I can assure you that some of his actions may have been interpreted…shall we say, in an overly dramatic fashion.”

Now she looked offended.  “You’re accusing the imperial justice system of lies?  The Law itself – to which you owing your living – has decreed its own infallibility.”

Behind Harvey, Mike had risen to his feet, arms crossed tightly over his chest.  “An Orsini would think that, wouldn’t they?  Your father, the Deputy Proconsul of New York, and your uncle, Chief Adjudicator for the High Court of the empire, no doubt hammered that home to you your entire life.  A shame you’ve never bothered to venture outside of your little bubble of privilege – “

“Mike.”

“No, Harvey.  Let him go on,” Katrina urged, her tone sharply malicious.  “The opinions of a thing like him might carry no weight, but they make for such amusing anecdotes.  What other grievances do you harbor against the empire, you poor, wretched boy?  I’ll be sure to pass them right along to my father and uncle, just to hear their delighted howls of laughter.”

Mike’s cheeks had grown red, and he appeared to be grinding his teeth together.  His mouth opened and closed a few times, and then he looked to Harvey, eyes wide, as if asking something along the lines of, _what the fuck?_

Harvey felt inclined to ask something similar of the fates that had thrown him together with these two, but instead he strolled to his desk and sat in his chair, leaning back to observe Mike and Katrina with what he hoped was a cynically amused air.  “Mike, have a seat.  And you, Katrina, retract your claws, if you don’t mind.  I hate to break it to the both of you, but you kids will have to learn to play nice together.”

Katrina took a step forward, body rigid with outrage.  “I’ll do nothing of the sort.  Let him stay, if you insist on it, but you cannot force me to lower myself to having any interactions with him.”

“At least I’m a ‘him’ now,” Mike muttered, sitting down at his desk.  He made one more barely audible comment, which seemed to include some mention of a “stick up her butt,” and then turned his attention to his computer.

“Harvey,” Katrina began.

“No.  Sit.”  He fixed her with a glare and waited her out.  Finally, she sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk, jaw set in mutinous anger.  “If you feel unable to treat my indenture with at least the minimum of common courtesy, then I’ll ask you to stay out of my office as much as you’re able to.”  He picked up several file folders and handed them across the desk to her.  “Here.  Familiarize yourself with these cases.  When you’re finished, report to Louis.  I’m sure he’ll be able to find something sufficiently time-consuming to keep you out of my way for the rest of the day, or if I’m lucky, for the rest of the week.”

Clutching the files, Katrina stood up.  “My father is going to hear all about this.”

“Your father – “ Harvey started, but was interrupted by Mike.

“Embroiled in a sex scandal.  Fighting for his political life.  Likely to resign within the week.”

Katrina whirled toward him, enraged.  “ _How dare you_.”

“How dare I what?  Speak the truth?  Not even the official news sites are bothering to censor all the sordid details.  Such an appetite.  The man would fuck anyone, wouldn’t he?  How many of your own friends did he seduce behind your back?  Or did you send them his way?”

“Shut your filthy mouth.”

“Why?  Afraid of the truth?  Just how involved were you, Katrina?”

“Shut up.”

“Were you Daddy’s little girl?”

“Mike,” Harvey said, “that’s enough.”

Katrina had retreated to the doorway, files held against her chest, looking as if she wanted to vaporize Mike with the intensity of her glare.  She opened her mouth to speak, seemed to change her mind, and closed it again before disappearing down the hallway.

"Well," said Mike, "she seems nice.”

"You need to stay away from her Mike.  Be careful what you say around her.  Seriously.  And don't eat anything she hands you."

"No.  Not a good idea.  I get that."

Harvey took a closer look at Mike.  "So how are you?  Doing okay?"

Mike shrugged.  "Bored.  Other than that I'm fine.  I met Rachel."

"Who?"

"You're kidding, right?  No?  Dark hair, gorgeous, paralegal."

With an irritated frown, Harvey collected a small stack of files and held them out in Mike's direction.  "Rachel.  Right.  Out of your league.  These are duplicates of the files I just gave to Ms. Orsini.  I'd like to get your take on them as well."  When Mike just looked at him, Harvey remembered the chain attached to the wall, which limited his movement.  "This is going to be a long three months," he grumbled, standing up and walking the files over to Mike.  "I asked Donna to order us some lunch.  I hope you like Italian."

Mike sat down at his little desk and Harvey did his best not to notice his long legs and well-defined arms.  "Sure.  As long as they dial back on the garlic and leave out th -- "

"I don't care."

"Right."  Mike opened the first file folder and started to read.

He watched Mike glance through the files, then settle in for a closer read.

“Save any observations on those until we get home.”

Mike just nodded and kept reading.

 

After they ate lunch and Mike had finished reviewing the cases Harvey had handed him, he spent the rest of the afternoon on the computer, getting halfway through the online coursework for the history class that Donna had signed him up for.  It was every bit as dull as he’d expected, repeating all of the “Glory of the Empire” bullshit he’d been fed in school.  The required essays had tempted him to sarcastically dismantle certain accepted “facts,” but he knew that would only bring attention and trouble his way.  He’d had enough of both lately.  So he tapped out a grammatically perfect recitation of the causes and consequences of 16th century treaties and alliances, stretched and yawned, and thought about taking another nap.  The clock on the computer told him it was after 6:30.

Apparently having noticed his movements, Harvey glanced over at him.  “I’ll be ready to get out of here in about ten minutes.

Mike nodded absently and rubbed his eyes.  It had been years since he’d done this much reading in one sitting.  He waited until Harvey’s attention was back on whatever he was working on, and then took the opportunity to study his…boss?  Owner?  Master?  He gave a little shiver.  The indenture agreement they’d both signed was laid out with the language of a business transaction, but the reality of it was that Harvey effectively owned him.  There were limits on how he could use Mike, but not many.

Right now, with his head bent over his desk, Harvey looked so serious, every inch the immaculate, powerful advocate.  His white shirt looked as starched and crisp as it had this morning when Mike had first seen him in it.  Not a hair was out of place on his head.  Mike didn’t like to think how rumpled he, himself, must look in comparison.  His gaze moved up from Harvey’s chest and zeroed in on his mouth, wondering what it looked like relaxed and smiling, instead of hard and thinned and a little pinched at the corners like it was now.

“Stop staring at me.”

Mike gave a start, thought about denying it, and sighed softly, looking away.  He scratched his nose nervously, causing his chain to jingle melodically. 

“Don’t fidget.”

He pressed his lips together and rolled his eyes, even though Harvey wasn’t looking at him.  He stared at the floor near the door and breathed slowly, practicing patience.  As the minutes ticked slowly past, he let his mind wander, allowing himself to imagine meeting Harvey at another time in a different place, perhaps in some forgotten corner of the empire.  Idly, he pictured Harvey naked, conjuring up the lean but powerful frame hinted at underneath his clothes.  Closing his eyes, he concentrated on that image, dressed Harvey in his suit again, and after a minute or two, a little porno began to unfold featuring Harvey and Mike.

_Harvey shoved him against the desk, bent him over so his face hit the wood surface, scattering legal documents, and tugged Mike’s pants down.  Cool air wafted over his bare bottom and seconds later warm hands stroked over his ass possessively.  In his chilly, condescending voice, Harvey ordered him to hold his cheeks open.  Mike’s face burned in embarrassment as he complied.  Seconds passed, during which he imagined Harvey standing behind him just staring at him, or maybe stroking himself lightly through his trousers.  Then, so suddenly he flinched, thick, blunt fingers pushed inside him, coarse and cruel, but achingly patient.  He could hear Harvey's uneven breathing and low hums of appreciation, could feel his hot breath harsh against his ear as his tie dropped forward and brushed the side of Mike’s neck.  The fingers withdrew and then three were forced into him, and Mike was moaning, begging for him to stop, begging for more, tears threatening to fall.  "Tell me what you want, Mike."  What did he want?  Gods, so much.  His mouth worked, but then Harvey's fingers brushed over his prostate and he couldn't think, couldn't speak.  He arched back, working himself on Harvey's fingers, whining and needy.  "Mike?  What do you want for dinner?"_

_Dinner?_

Mike's eyes popped open.  He stared blankly at Harvey, trying to replay the last few seconds to determine whether or not he'd made some betraying sound.  Harvey only gazed back at him, impatient and a little bemused.  "Uh," Mike said intelligently.  "A burger?"

Harvey stared at him a few seconds longer, expression unreadable.  "A burger.  Yeah, okay, I guess we could grab some on the way home.  Ready to go?"

Mike nodded, reluctant to stand and give away his dirty daydreaming with his half hard cock.  As Harvey stood and turned slightly to slide on his suit jacket, Mike took several calming breaths and rose, grabbing the case files and holding them in front of his crotch.  _Shit_.  Why was he having impure thoughts about Harvey Specter, of all people? 

Harvey crossed the room to unlock his chain from his collar.  At first, the key wouldn't turn in the lock.  Harvey stepped in close, one hand on the back of Mike's neck, and Mike could feel the warmth of his even breaths against his ear.  He suppressed a shiver, which Harvey apparently felt anyway.

"You okay?" he asked, not sounding as if he particularly cared what the answer was.

Mike nodded shortly, biting his lip.

Finally, the lock opened and Mike was free.

Well, free- _ish._

When Harvey turned away, evidently expecting to be followed obediently, Mike let his shoulders slump for a moment, and wiped away the thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead.  Resolutely not tracking Harvey’s firm ass with his gaze, he followed Harvey out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has it really been since August that I've posted a chapter for this story? Holy guacamole. Time flies, I guess, even when you're not having fun! Okay, I realize not much happened in this chapter, but I'm making it my goal to post at least once a week to this thing, even if I end up with shorter chapters. So if you're still reading (and I know at least one person is) thanks for your patience.


	9. Chapter 9

Mike polished off his last piece of fried potato and used his crumpled paper napkin to wipe grease from his lips and fingers. He glanced up at Harvey, watching him take a long pull from his bottle of beer. Mike was stuck with tap water to drink, but he'd held back from complaining or begging for something stronger to drink, even if he did feel he deserved some kind of reward after surviving his first day at Pearson Hardman.

He was also stuck wearing his same ugly uniform. Harvey hadn’t yet bought him anything to change into while at home.

Home.

And wasn’t that a surreal thought, that Harvey’s fancy apartment would be Mike’s home for the next seven years? He took another look at Harvey, and found himself being studied in return. He did his best to ignore the dark, incisive gaze while he took in the other man’s appearance. Harvey’s suit jacket was off, hung safely away somewhere, his tie loosened, the sleeves of his immaculate white shirt rolled to his elbows, but otherwise he still appeared perfect and put together. Meeting his eyes briefly, Mike tensed, feeling as if Harvey was capable of searching out every secret thought and plan. Mike looked away and scratched absently at the tattoo on his upper arm. He heard Harvey’s beer bottle clink against the countertop.

Mike was sitting closest to the refrigerator, so he asked, “Would you like another beer?”

Harvey ignored his question, shifting on his stool and shoving his crumpled food wrappers out of the way before reaching for the file folders Mike had dropped on the counter earlier. He held up the first one without opening it. “Jameson v. Gilhart Motors. What’s your recommendation?”

Mike gathered up the remains of their meal, wadding up the greasy wrappers and tossing them in the trash receptacle under the sink. He paced out of the kitchen into the living room and dropped heavily into a corner of the sofa, legs stretched in from of him and crossed at the ankles. “My recommendation?" he finally asked. "Mr. Jameson signed what looks like a fairly airtight non-compete agreement with Gilhart. Unfortunately for Gilhart, there’s a big fat typo on page three that changes the entire meaning of paragraph two, and should make it pretty easy to break, if that’s the way your client wants to go.”

He stopped talking and watched, with no small amount of satisfaction, as Harvey yanked the file open and flipped to page three. His finger slid down the page and when it came to a halt midway down, Mike knew he’d spotted what Mike had.

“Shit,” said Harvey. He looked up at Mike, not quite smiling, but eyes shining with approval. “That’s really good. I’ve read this thing close to a dozen times and never noticed that.”

Mike shrugged, trying to appear modest and nonchalant, when in truth, he was finding that look of warm approval a little too gratifying. “Fresh eyes,” was all he said. He wondered if Katrina Orsini would find the mistake as well, and not so secretly hoped she wouldn’t.

Harvey picked up the next file folder. “Keane Importers. Go.”

Mike nearly laughed at how douchey Harvey sounded. Go. Like this was some sort of sporting event. “Honestly? I wouldn’t have taken them on as clients. They’re obviously dealing in large volumes of contraband from Eurasia. They got caught – big surprise – and now they’re going to have to pay some hefty fines. Short of dropping them completely, I’d advise them to shut up and pay. And maybe clean up their act.”

Harvey stood and strolled into the living room, stopping in front of Mike and staring down at him. “First of all, they’ve been our clients for nearly thirty years. They’ve been loyal to a fault, even stuck by us when Jessica and Daniel Hardman took over the firm. Secondly, paying the full amount of the fines would not only bankrupt them, it would make us look bad.”

“Don’t you mean it would make you look bad?”

Harvey rolled his eyes, grimacing in obvious irritation. “Mike, they’re our clients, and they expect more from us. From me. Advising them to simply roll over and pay through the nose is not an acceptable solution.”

Mike couldn’t find it in himself to care. Big company gets caught gaming the system? Boo fucking hoo. He shrugged. “I don't know. Bribes instead of fines? Maybe your new hotshot apprentice will figure something out for you.”

Harvey’s mouth pulled tight, indicating he wasn’t happy with Mike’s response. “All right. You’re one for two. One chance to redeem yourself. Any brilliant insights or strategy for Galen Clarke?”

“Send him to the arena. Find him the toughest possible indenture posting. Or let him rot in prison.”

“Why? Because he’s a rich celebrity?”

“No. Because he’s a murderer and all around dick head.”

“Alleged murderer. There’s been no conviction yet. More important than any of that, he’s our client.”

Mike nodded, a cynical smirk on his face. “Uh huh. They can’t officially convict him until they find him. You know they’re going to compel you to give up his location, right?”

“And since I have no idea where he’s holed up, that won’t be a problem. So, how do we prove his innocence before he inevitably does something stupid and is taken into custody?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Innocence? He was alone in a room with his business manager, who keeled over dead five minutes after Clarke left. Cause of death was never determined, but who else could it have been?”

Harvey gazed past Mike, over his head, and then nodded slowly several times as if Mike had said something intelligent. “Yes. Exactly. That’s it exactly.”

“What’s what?” Mike followed Harvey’s movements as he paced the room for half a minute before taking a seat in the armchair across from Mike.

“Kid,” said Harvey, “I’m going to give you half credit for that, which leaves you batting .500. Not a bad start.”

“Okay. Not sure I care, but what am I getting credit for?”

Harvey actually smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners in a way that Mike tried hard not to find charming and weirdly sexy. "For pointing out the obvious: that we need to find out who did it, and failing that, make a convincing case for a suspect to be named later."

"Ah. A scapegoat. Charming." Mike knew he should be appalled to hear that Harvey was considering pinning the murder on some random person in order to get his client off, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Wealth and fame were all too often used this way. It made Mike tired to think about it -- more tired than he already was. He wasn't sleepy, though, and it was too early for bed. “So,” he said, breaking into whatever Harvey was thinking about, “are evenings free time for me, or do you have some chores you want me to do?”

Managing to look both annoyed and thoughtful at the same time, Harvey gazed at Mike and shook his head. “Can’t think of a thing. I have plenty of people already who take care of things for me.” He glanced at his watch. “Eight o’clock,” he muttered.

They sat there looking at one another, and Mike wondered if Harvey was feeling as strange about their situation as he was. If he were living alone, free and answering to nobody but himself, Mike would probably go out, get some drinks, maybe get laid. Perhaps Harvey was the same way. Eventually he would have to leave Mike home alone, and when he did, Mike would use the opportunity to sneak out and hunt for Trevor. Trying to figure out how to encourage Harvey to go out, if not tonight then at some point in the not so distant future, he ventured, “How do you normally spend your evenings, Harvey?”

Harvey smirked. “Not the exciting life you envisioned? Well, I guess you’ll get an idea about my schedule as we go on. For one thing, I generally stay later at work. Sometimes I meet with clients for dinner or drinks. To be honest, I don’t get too many free, early nights like this. I suppose we could watch a movie. Would you like that?”

Mike could hardly believe that Harvey was actually asking for his opinion. He’d been expecting rules and orders, but Harvey seemed so relaxed about the whole thing that Mike was finding it hard to maintain his animosity towards him. The objective right now was to gain his trust, so Mike smiled brightly and said, “Sure.”

Harvey stood and retrieved the remote control from underneath the large screen attached to the wall. He turned on the power and flipped online to bring up his personalized list of movies. “See anything you like?”

The first thing that popped into his mind was, yeah, your ass. Mike shook his head impatiently and then realized Harvey was staring at him, waiting for an answer. “Um. I mean, anything. I didn’t have much time for movies where I was. Anything that came out in the last five years, I probably haven’t seen yet.”

Harvey selected something that, from the title, Mike deduced promised space pirates and explosions and plenty of rousing music. “And where was that?” Harvey asked.

Mike had to think back on what he’d said before he realized what Harvey was asking. “Where was I? Um.” Don’t trust your advocate, Rachel had warned him. “All over really. Chicago. Denver. Seattle. I moved around a lot.”

A soft grunt was Harvey’s only response. The movie started, and they both grew quiet and settled in to watch. Maybe half an hour in, Mike started to get sleepy, and between one laser blast and the next, he fell asleep.

******

A wall creaked somewhere in the apartment, and Harvey sighed, staring up in the dark. He’d left Mike asleep on the couch after the movie ended, and had gone to bed, although he hadn’t yet fallen asleep. He probably should have woken the kid up and sent him to bed, but then he’d figured that at least one of them could enjoy a decent night’s sleep.

He heard quiet footsteps, waited for them to head past his room and down the hall. When they didn’t, he grew curious and got up to check on Mike. He found him in the kitchen, holding one of Harvey’s expensive bottles of scotch.

“Mike.”

The boy gave a start and nearly dropped the bottle, but recovered in time to set it safely on the counter. He blushed, looking guilty. He still wore his work uniform, and it was rumpled from where he’d been laying on the couch. “I couldn’t get back to sleep,” he finally said.

Harvey wanted to be angry with him. Stealing and breaking the no alcohol rule in his first week didn’t bode well for the next seven years. He looked so adorably abashed though, that Harvey sighed loudly and then entered the kitchen and removed two glasses from a cupboard. “Pour,” he said, and Mike sloshed a hefty shot into each of the glasses. Raising one eyebrow, Harvey clicked his glass to Mike’s in an ironic gesture and threw back his shot. He watched Mike do the same. “Do you want me to buy you some pajamas?” He gestured to Mike’s wrinkled uniform.

“Depends.” Mike’s pale blue eyes had taken on a mischievous gleam. “I normally sleep in the nude. Would it bother you to bump into me in all my naked glory?”

Harvey snorted and poured them each a second, smaller shot. “Glory? Really? I think I’ll survive. If you’re really that glorious, though, I may have to take advantage of clauses in our contract which I had fully intended to ignore.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Flirting with Mike had never been the game plan.

Mike, however, did not appear at all alarmed by Harvey’s suggestion. He sipped at his drink and eyed Harvey’s sleep pants and t-shirt. “Hardly seems fair, if that’s all the skin you’re showing.” Mike tossed back the rest of the scotch and licked his lips. He took a step toward Harvey, who tensed up, not sure what to expect. Mike barely brushed him, though, as he walked past on his way to the hallway and the spare bedroom. Mike’s bedroom.

Harvey took several steps after him, drink in hand. Mike paused with his hand on the doorknob, face mostly in shadow in the dark hallway. “You know you can fuck me if you want to Harvey. It’s your right, and truly, I don’t mind. That’s all it will be though. Your right. My duty.”

Harvey’s bark of laughter surprised both of them. “Zeus, kid. Rest easy. I don’t think I’m in any danger of falling for you.” He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Your offer is duly noted, but I’m going to take a pass tonight. Maybe some other time.”

He heard a chuff of laughter, saw Mike’s shoulders move up and down once in the shadows. “Goodnight, then.” He went inside and shut the door.

Harvey stared at the closed door. “Goodnight," he muttered. "Whatever. And stop stealing my booze.” He went back to bed feeling oddly unsettled and wondering if he should have just taken the boy up on his offer.


	10. Chapter 10

"Mike."

Mike looked up from his desk to find Harvey hovering next to him with an uncharacteristically diffident expression on his face. Mike raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

"I have to leave for a meeting."

"Yeah?"

"Away from the office." Now he looked apologetic and angry at the same time.

"Okay...." Mike wasn’t sure what Harvey expected from him. "And?"

"And Donna's not at her desk." Harvey consulted his wristwatch and compressed his lips in a not-quite-scowl.

"So? I promise not to make a break for it." He lifted the chain that secured him to the wall and shook it so it jingled. "Not going anywhere. Unless...are you taking me with you?"

Harvey dashed that brief hope with a sharp, humorless laugh. "No. It's just...things happen. Life is unpredictable and I don't think it's a good idea to leave you locked up here on your own."

Mike frowned, puzzled by Harvey's strange behavior. "Things? Are you afraid the building's going to catch on fire in the next five minutes? Or that one of those damn blimps that keep buzzing the building is going to crash through the window and annihilate me?"

Harvey rolled his eyes. "No, Mike. When your time comes, I don't believe it will be death by blimp. It's just a safety thing. A precaution." He glanced once more at his watch, sighed loudly, and scanned the office with an odd, shifty look before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the key which Mike recognized as the one which unlocked his chain. Still looking around as if expecting someone to leap through the doorway and catch him in the act, Harvey leaned down to place the key on Mike's desk, using one finger to slide it underneath the edge of Mike's laptop computer. "Don't let anyone know you have this," he muttered. "Understood?"

Mike nodded dumbly. It was a simple gesture of trust and compassion, but just the same, he felt his throat close up at the depth of sudden gratitude he felt.

Harvey must have seen something in his face because he said, "Kid, I may have to live by the rules, but I don't have to like them. Just hide that key somewhere. Donna or I will be back soon. You're okay for a little while on your own?"

Mike just nodded again, too surprised to form words, much less a coherent sentence. Harvey held his gaze for another few seconds and then pivoted on his heel and strode out of the office. Mike picked up the key and stared down at it, part of him still reeling a little at Harvey's unexpected show of trust, and part of him calculating how he might use that trust to his advantage. He could hardly leave now to go in search of Trevor -- he didn't know how long Harvey would be gone, and Donna would certainly reappear fairly soon. But if he behaved, showed Harvey he was worthy of his trust, perhaps Harvey leaving the key with him would become a regular thing.

He was so deep in thought that he was caught off guard by the sound of a loud gasp just inside the doorway to the office. Quickly palming the key and holding it out of sight under the desk, he looked up to find Katrina Orsini glaring at him with murder in her eyes. It almost hurt to make his mouth move, but he forced a smile onto his face, and said in a sugary sweet voice designed to annoy her, "Good morning, Ms. Orsini. Harvey's not here right now. Is there something I can help you with?"

Looking as if she had bitten into a rotten potato, Katrina sneered, turning up the heat of her gaze by a few degrees. " _You_?" she said. "What does a piece of furniture know about the law? And just exactly why are you here by yourself and unsupervised?"

Keeping his expression blank and friendly, Mike asked, "Are you here with recommendations on those three cases he gave you?"

She took another step into the office, eyes narrowing. "That's none of your business." In spite of her words, she seemed curious. After a short silence, she came closer and asked, "Maybe. Did Harvey say something to you?"

He stretched his legs out and purposely made his chain jingle again, trying to unnerve her. "He says lots of things to me. Oh, you mean about you? Yeah, I seem to remember something about worrying that you might unhinge your jaw and swallow me whole."

She pressed her lips together, somehow managing to make a scoffing noise at the same time. "In your dreams, slave."

He rolled his eyes. "First off, I'm not a slave. And secondly, you're not even close to my type, so don't flatter yourself."

"Yet."

"What's that?"

"You're not a slave yet," she said, blue eyes filled with malice. "But don't count on things staying that way."

A small wave of unease hit him at the certainty of her tone. Ultra conservatives in the government had been threatening for years -- decades -- to change the indenture laws, but so far nothing had come of it. "What do you mean by that? What do you know?"

She just smirked at him, lovely and evil and cruel. Suddenly, he’d had enough. He wanted to hurt the bitch.

"So," he said, ignoring Harvey's warning and his own instinct toward self-preservation, "what did you make of Jameson v. Gilhart Motors?"

She had no reason to answer, but he guessed that her vanity would compel her to try to show off, even in front of someone she considered as low as Mike. He wasn’t disappointed.

Her expression remained frozen, but her eyes glinted with surprise. "Not that you could possibly comprehend any of it, but Jameson has no case. If he walks away he'll be barred from the industry for five years. I'm sure Harvey will agree with my conclusion that he should accept the new contract and be grateful."

Mike just barely refrained from pumping his fist in the air in triumph. He settled for a serene and entirely fake smile. "Strike one," he murmured.

"Bullshit."

"Afraid not, princess. You missed something so glaringly obvious that even a loser indenture -- that would be me -- spotted it on the first pass."

"You lying little...scum. Why would he even show it to you?"

Mike shrugged. "Maybe he wanted to set a base level so he could see how much better you could do. When he realizes you actually did worse than scum like me...." He left the rest unsaid, but could tell from the enraged look on Katrina's face that he had scored a direct hit.

After a moment, though, her eyes narrowed and the rage gave way to calculation. "Who the fuck are you? I read your official file, and there's no way you should be able to understand those documents, much less make anything approaching an intelligent conclusion." She stepped closer, one hand dipping into the pocket of her blazer.

"Just your average indenture scum," Mike said blithely, while starting to be worried as she moved closer. Was she going to pull a handgun or poisoned dagger from her pocket? He relaxed somewhat when she removed a phone.

Katrina ignored him for a minute while she tapped and swiped at the screen. Seeming to have found what she was looking for, she quickly closed the distance between them, held the phone up and ordered, "Hold still. This won't hurt a bit."

Before he could even react, she leaned in, grasped his hair to hold his head back, and shoved the phone right in front of his eye. He heard the simulated "shutter" sound of a picture being taken, and then she released him and scuttled backwards, before his wildly swinging fist could connect.

"What the fuck?"

She looked up from the screen and smiled at him. "Perfect. I just took a retinal scan. They have an app for everything these days, don't they?"

"You -- you -- you can't just come in here and fucking _eye rape_ me!" He lunged to his feet, forgetting the chain, and tried to take a step in her direction before being brought up short. "Harvey's going to hear about this. He’s not going to like it."

She ignored him in favor of performing more functions with her phone, typing a message and sending it -- and the scan, presumably -- off to somebody. All the while, her malicious smile never left her pretty pink mouth.

"There," she said, finally looking up. "This time next week – maybe sooner – I’ll know everything there is to know about Michael James Ross.”

He felt a stab of alarm, but told himself she had to be bluffing. “Right. You think that scan will tell you anything more than the great imperial criminal justice system found?”

“Yes, actually. They are overworked and short on initiative, and I happen to have a resource that they don’t.” She paused, as if waiting for him to make some sort of protest or denial, but when he said nothing, she continued. “My family has several... _indentures._ We’ll call them that for now. You see, my father likes to collect people with special skills.”

At this, Mike snorted. “I’ll bet he does.”

She glared, hands tightening into fists. “Not those kind of skills. Well, not only those skills. And what of it? It’s perfectly legal to keep sex pets. Which, frankly, is the only reason I can fathom for Harvey spending money on you.”

“So you’re saying you find me attractive?”

“What? No! Not even close.” She shut her eyes briefly, seeming to take a moment to compose herself. “My point is, one of our indentures is a rather unique young woman named Lola. You’d probably get on well with her. Before she was caught, she was a vicious little malcontent, blogging all sorts of anti-government tripe and hacking into every official site you could think of. But she was caught, as your kind always are, and my father saw her potential value, so he bought her and...well, you'd probably rather not hear how he keeps her employed most of the time. But she frequently proves useful to me as well. She's got a real gift at ferreting out the truth, and I mean Truth with a capital ‘T’, not what the rest of us see when we go on-line."

Mike clutched the key in his fist and gave serious consideration to unlocking the chain. “If this Lola is so good at what she does, why is it going to take her a whole week to find this supposed truth?”

At this, Katrina pursed her lips, appearing annoyed. “She’s not available at the moment.” Turning, she paced to the window and stood there with her back to Mike.

The key seemed to burn in his palm and he clutched it more tightly, feeling his hand grow damp with sweat. He spoke almost absently, not really paying attention to what he was saying. “Too busy with your father, performing her sex pet duties?”

Agitated, she turned and took two steps in his direction. “You shut your filthy mouth about my father.”  

 _Just come a little closer and I'll wrap this chain around your slender neck._ He didn't say the words, but realized that he'd growled lowly when she took several steps back, her bravado slipping a bit.

"You'll be sorry you ever fucked with me, slave. When her discipline is over, Lola will find every single secret you possess, and my father and I will crush you into dust."

"Right. Your father. Is that before or after he's forced to resign?"

"That will never happen. And you know what the really delicious thing is? Harvey's the one who handed us the means to save Daddy's position. Harvey and Galen Clarke. So you can stew on that one for a while, and you can enjoy your pathetic little life for the short time until you get the sentence you deserve. I’m betting it will be death, and if it’s not, maybe I’ll just have Lola embellish your record a little to get you what you deserve."

She whirled and left the room. Mike stood there for a minute, straining against his chain and shaking from anger and reaction. He took deep breaths, trying to slow his heart rate and get himself under control. Finally he sat back down, and when Donna poked her head into the office a few minutes later to check on him, he was able to smile, if a little wanly, and tell her everything was fine.

He had added a name to his list though, and now there were two: Trevor Evans and Katrina Orsini. Unfortunately, it looked as if he would need to work even faster than he’d planned so he could take his revenge before the mysterious Lola exposed his rebel connections.


	11. Chapter 11

Mike seemed uncharacteristically subdued after Harvey returned from his meeting with Paul Jameson, barely reacting when Harvey informed him that the mistake Mike had noticed in the non-compete agreement was going to allow Citizen Jameson to leave Gilhart Motors and begin work on his innovative ideas for alternative energy cars that might very well revolutionize the industry. He wanted to see a smile on Mike's face, even an infuriatingly smug one, but all he got was a distracted nod before Mike returned his attention to whatever was on his computer screen.

Now, several hours later, Harvey still struggled to concentrate on his work. He couldn't seem to stop himself from glancing over at Mike, taking in the tense set of his shoulders and the faint lines of worry between his eyes. By 5:30, he was ready to give in and ask Mike what was bothering him, but before he could, Mike's eyes widened and he sat back, gaze still riveted on his screen.

"Whoa," said Mike, resting both hands on the top of his head. “I don’t believe this.”

“What’s that?” Harvey asked, trying to sound like he couldn’t care less.

“Galen Clarke. You’ve got to see this.”

Harvey rose slowly and walked across the office to stand behind Mike, where he could watch the screen with him. A vid loop was just coming to an end. Harvey started to ask what he had missed, but the vid started up again from the beginning.

The focus of the scene was a door near the right forefront of the frame, which had been set for full screen. Part of a reception desk could be seen in the upper left corner, with a sleek blonde woman partially in the frame. The door swung open, and a smiling man exited. He was clearly visible as the well-known actor, Galen Clarke. He waved at the receptionist, who glanced up to smile at him before directing her attention to a second man who had appeared at her desk. She shook her head no, but he turned and walked through the open door. As he passed closest to the camera, his hand emerged from his coat pocket to reveal the hypo needle gun he’d pulled out. He passed through the door, and the vid loop ended and started up again.

When Harvey could find words, the best he could manage was, “Was that….?”

“Outside his business manager’s office. A veritable smoking hypo gun. All four government channels are playing it on a continuous loop. Pretty convenient discovery, wouldn’t you say?”

“Almost laughably so. Have they – “

“Identified the hypo wielding fiend? Not yet. So where did you find him? Exactly how desperate was he?”

Harvey took a step back so he could see Mike’s face. “I didn’t do this, Mike.”

“Right. Weren’t you talking about finding a scapegoat for Clarke just yesterday?”

“That was your word, Mike, not mine. My intention was to find the real killer, not fabricate some transparent piece of vid-theater.”

He watched as Mike seemed to weigh his words. The boy nodded slowly, expression thoughtful. He tapped a finger on the desktop in a stuttering rhythm. “You really had nothing to do with this?”

Harvey shook his head. “No.” Part of him was focused on Mike, the rest wondering if Galen Clarke would get in touch with him, and how they should handle this.

A few more seconds of finger tapping from Mike. “Okay. I need to tell you something, then.”

Harvey walked back to his desk and perched on the edge of it, facing Mike. “Go ahead.”

“I had a visitor while you were gone.”

“Who – “

“Katrina.”

Harvey grimaced, rolling his eyes. “I thought I told you to stay away from her.” Mike jingled his chain pointedly and Harvey sighed. “Yes, okay, I get that you didn’t have much choice. You seem to still be in possession of all your limbs and other appendages, so may I assume that the visit went well?”

Mike quirked his mouth to one side. “It went incredibly badly, if you must know. But I mention it because she made an odd comment about Clarke – said her father was planning to use you and Clarke to clear her father’s name.”

Harvey stared at Mike, waiting for more, but it appeared that was all the boy had to say. “And? So? That vid might clear Clarke, but I don’t see how it relates to Deputy Proconsul Orsini in the slightest. I’ve never even met the man.”

“I don’t know, but….she’s up to something. And her father, too. You should probably watch your back, Harvey”

“I always do,” said Harvey, ignoring the punch of satisfaction that Mike’s concern gave him. He waited for Mike to say more, but when he didn’t, Harvey asked, “Is there more? What else did you two talk about?”

Mike scowled and rubbed the spot between his eyes, as if his head had begun to hurt. “Bitch took a retinal scan. Took me by surprise or I might have avoided it.”

“What? Why?”

A not so casual shrug. “She’s freaky that way, I guess.”

“Mike….”

“Evidently, she intends to investigate me.”

Harvey snorted. “You must have really pissed her off. Will she find anything I don’t already know about?”

“Possibly.”

This didn’t surprise Harvey. It did make him curious, however. There would be plenty of time in the coming days and weeks and years to ferret out Mike’s secrets. Now, he just said, “And you’re worried about that.”

Mike stared at his desk, looking troubled.

“You know the law, Mike. You know it better than she does. So tell me, what can she legally do about any new offenses her investigation might uncover? Mike?”

He appeared to think that over, and then looked up at Harvey. “Legally? Nothing. According to the indenture laws, once the contract is signed and recorded, no further offenses or punishments may be assigned.”

“There you go.”

Surprisingly, Mike didn’t look any less worried than he had moments before. “But what if,” he asked slowly, “the laws change?”

“Change? What are you talking about?”

“Katrina hinted, in a not so subtle way, that before much longer you’d be calling me ‘slave,’ not Mike.”

Harvey shook his head and moved behind his desk to sit down. “The Ancient Empire party brings that shit up every session. They never have enough support to even bring it to a vote, much less pass it. If that’s what has you worried, you’re wasting your energy.” He laughed without humor. “Sounds like Katrina was just trying to rattle you, and she succeeded. It’s interesting to see which way her politics lean. Not surprising, but interesting.”

Mike shifted restlessly in his chair, giving an impatient huff. “This might all be a hypothetical exercise to you, but it’s my future that’s at stake. And Katrina may be a snotty little bitch, but she’s also in a position to know things. Her father is the Deputy Proconsul.”

“Currently disgraced, as you pointed out yesterday.”

“This Galen Clarke thing….it’s part of their scheme to clear his name. I haven’t worked out exactly how, but it all ties together. She’s up to something, her and her father.”

“Mike, I know you’ve been wandering in the wilderness for the last few years, but you can’t get worked up over every little hint of intrigue you come across. You’ll spend all your time inventing plots and conspiracies, and frankly, I don’t have the time to talk you down from the ledge every time someone makes an empty threat. Maybe this will teach you not to antagonize people from powerful families.”

Mike had begun chewing his lower lip. He shrugged, nodded, and returned his attention to his computer screen, tapping and typing and not looking at Harvey.

Harvey pretended to work for another five minutes and then came to a decision. “Look, I know you must be bored out of your mind. Except for this nonsense with Katrina, I’ve been pleased with your behavior. You seem to be legitimately trying to adjust to your new position in life. So, I think you deserve a reward. One of my clients has invited me to a charity fundraiser, and I’d like you to come with me.”

That got Mike’s attention. His head jerked up, and his eyes went wide with surprise. “Me? At some super formal, fancy dress affair? I don’t think my uniform is going to pass muster.”

Harvey hid a smile. “It’s not a problem. Citizen Keller’s about as liberal as they come. He always encourages a diverse crowd at his parties. I promise you’ll find it interesting. You might even enjoy yourself.” He was watching Mike closely, and the boy didn’t appear nearly as excited as he thought he might be.

“I don’t mind staying home,” Mike demurred. “I can entertain myself just fine. I’m kind of tired, actually.” Mike stretched and gave a half-yawn, as if to prove his point.

“Tired from sitting at a desk all day? Come on, Mike. This is your chance to meet celebrities, gladiators, politicians, artists. There will be other indentures there, probably more than a few sex pets. Don’t tell me you haven’t been at least a little bit curious about their experiences?”

“I don’t know….”

“Sorry. All objections are overruled. We’re going. _You’re_ going. Got anything else to say? Good, let’s head out.”

Harvey stood up to lead the way out of the office, checked himself at the door, and went back to unlock Mike’s chain. He was searching his pockets for the key when Mike held out his hand, palm up, with the key sitting in the center of it.

“You never asked for it back,” Mike said, expression neutral.

“Huh. Guess I forgot.” Harvey plucked up the key and leaned closer. Mike cocked his head to one side to give Harvey better access to the tiny lock securing the chain to his collar. He fumbled a little, distracted by Mike’s neck tendon and his own sudden impulse to bend lower and lick it. He cursed softly when the lock slipped from his fingers, and braced one hand on Mike’s shoulder.

“Need some help?” Mike asked.

“No. Keep still.” In the end, he had to wrap one hand halfway around Mike’s neck to hold both collar and padlock in place while he fitted the key into the lock, all the while too aware of Mike’s soft, even breathing beneath him. “There.” He straightened up and stepped back. “You’re free.”

Mike unfolded himself from the desk and stood. “Agree to disagree,” he muttered. “And I hope you’re going to feed me before we hit this stupid party.”

Harvey opened his mouth and then closed it, choosing not to reply. He also chose not to attach the leash to Mike’s collar. He did give Mike a quelling look, though, and they left the office, Mike following closely behind Harvey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the encouraging comments. They helped when I effed up and lost my almost completed chapter eleven. I finally finished sulking about the loss, and finished it, although I remain convinced that the first (lost) version was better.


	12. Chapter 12

Mike remained quiet as Harvey maneuvered  the metallic red Magellan coupe into a parking spot on the street across from a renovated Brooklyn palazzo. He hoped that's where they were headed, because aside from that one building, the neighborhood appeared dangerous and rundown, even to Mike's eyes. Personally, he would never have dared park such an expensive automobile in this location, even with its state of the art security system, but he kept that to himself.

Once the car stopped moving, Mike rubbed a sweaty palm over the pant leg of his beige uniform. It had been a choice between that and the "formal" black uniform, but when Harvey had walked out of his bedroom wearing jeans and an untucked white button down shirt, it was clear that this was not a formal affair. So, ugly beige it was.

“They’d better have food,” Mike grumbled.

They exited the car and Harvey set the alarm. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to starve.” He touched Mike’s back lightly, guiding him in the direction of the renovated building. “Let’s get something straight before we go in, though. Tom’s got a well-stocked bar, and he’s also a fan of other recreational substances.”

“ Sweet . The evening's looking up.”

“You are not to touch any of that. No booze, and absolutely no drugs.”

“So, it’s a ‘maybe’ on the booze?”

They arrived at the front door, and were let in by a pair of large men in expensive suits.

“Behave yourself, or next time I go out I’ll chain you up in your bedroom.” Harvey slanted a serious look at Mike before breaking into a warm smile directed at a tall, blond man who had come over to greet  them. “Great to see you Tom.” They shook hands, and while Harvey ignored Mike, Tom – presumably the Citizen Keller who was hosting the event – was giving him a frank appraisal.

“Who did you bring with you, Harvey? Is he yours? This is new. ”

“I’m afraid so. Mike Ro -- sorry, just Mike, my indenture and recent desperate fugitive, meet Tom Keller, filthy rich member of the entrenched ruling class."

Mike couldn't figure out how much of what Harvey said was sarcasm, and how much was careless honesty. He was still caught up on the comment about leaving him chained in his bedroom. He was pretty sure Harvey was kidding about that, but it worried him. All of his plans for revenge on Trevor hinged on being able to sneak around behind Harvey's back.

Surprisingly, Citizen Keller was smiling at him warmly, and had extended his hand.  They shook ,  and Mike  smiled and nodded, looking around him and not really hearing the polite noises Harvey and Keller were making in one another's direction.

The room they were in took up most of the first floor of the palazzo. If Keller was filthy rich, as Harvey had stated, then Mike couldn't understand why he'd chosen this neighborhood in which to buy property. He had to admit, though, that whoever had overseen the renovation and decoration of this space had an exacting eye for detail, as well as a fascinating aesthetic vision. The walls were slathered in frescoes done in traditional materials, but in a style similar to that currently popular in graphic novels. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. The floors were a combination of aged oak and intricate mosaic tiles, and again, logic may have insisted that it would be a confusing mess, but instead it gave off an eclectic, Bohemian vibe that Mike found attractive.

The furniture looked both comfortable and expensive, done in dark wood and a variety of natural fabrics, with brightly patterned throw pillows scattered everywhere. Mike and Harvey had arrived early by normal party standards,  but  a sizeable crowd already filled the room. Techno-baroque music drifted through air fragrant with incense and pot smoke, providing a bouncy contrapuntal background to the buzz of conversation. 

The people were as eclectic and  oddly  matched as the furnishings. Dress ranged from suit and tie and designer dresses, to jeans and ironic t-shirts. He spotted four other indenture uniforms, and three sex pets -- at least that's what he assumed they must be. The two woman and one young man were all naked, collared and leashed. One of the women was curled up on the couch next to her mistress, head in her lap, practically purring. He caught the male pet's eye for half a second, and nearly recoiled at the blank, dead gaze he encountered. It would seem that the quality of life of for a pet could vary drastically, and Mike spared a brief moment to be grateful that he'd avoided that fate.

His attention was pulled back to Harvey when he headed off into the crowd, hand raised to gain someone's attention. Mike started after him, but Keller's hand landed on his arm, halting him. He looked up at the taller man. "I should probably...." he began, gesturing after Harvey.

"You can catch up with him later. I wanted to talk to you for a minute."

" Okaaaay ....."

"Don't sound so surprised. People interest me. I like to hear their stories, and your tattoo hints that you might have an interesting one. Tell me, how did you become an indenture?"

"Uh." To Mike, it didn't seem like a terribly interesting story. "It's complicated. Maybe I'll tell you, Citizen Keller, if you tell me how you became filthy rich."

Keller gave a rich chuckle. "First off, I insist you call me Tom. And secondly, I was born rich. I became  filthy rich when I ripped off my college roommate ’ s Fantasy Gladiator idea."

"Fantasy what now?"

Another laugh. "Have you been hiding under a rock for the last five years?"

" Actually, yeah.  Pretty much."

Tom tilted his head, looking Mike up and down, and seeming to reassess him. "Let's get a drink, and you can tell me more." He started walking.

Mike followed him, but cautioned, "I'm not allowed to drink."

"What? That's insane. I don't think Harvey will mind."

They reached the side of the room, where a small bar had been set up.

"He threatened me if I drank," Mike said, as they passed by a thirtyish looking man in an indenture uniform who held a glass of what appeared to be brandy. "I don't want to screw up my contract. I'd hate to get thrown to the gladiators, fantasy or otherwise. What is that by the way? You never said. Is it some kind of porn site?"

Tom accepted two glasses of something amber colored and tried to pass one over to Mike, who shook his head stubbornly. Finally, Tom shrugged and kept both glasses, throwing back one and returning it to the bar . He grabbed Mike's arm and led him through an open set of doors. On the other side was a smaller room which was empty of people and appeared to be some kind of study or office. The décor was more subdued, but still spoke rather loudly of large amounts of money.

"You've really never heard of my website?" Tom asked him. He sat on a dark brown sofa and indicated that Mike should sit next to him, which he did. "Okay, it's based on actual gladiators and their statistics, but you create your own school. There's a fantasy draft. When the real guys win a match, your fake guys win."

"Sounds...." To Mike, it sounded grotesque, considering the brutal deaths dealt out to convicted criminals by the state's gladiators, but he didn't want to be rude. "...fun," he finished lamely, and then couldn't resist asking, "Doesn't it bother you, though? Encouraging people to treat all those grisly deaths like a game?"

Tom sipped at his drink, his gaze on the curtained window across from them. He tipped his head in Mike's direction. "I'll let you in on a secret." He tossed back the rest of his drink and set the empty glass next to him on the sofa, then lowered his voice. "It's all fake."

"What?" Mike wasn't sure he'd heard him correctly.

"Fake. A farce. The fights are staged, and the deaths are faked. It's all done to entertain and frighten."

“Frighten?”

“People like you.” Tom raised one shoulder in an apologetic shrug. “So that you're more likely to follow the rules and do as you’re told.” 

“But – “ Mike couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “People die, right?”

“Rarely.” Tom finished his drink, and pulled a joint from his pocket. 

Mike took a moment to process that. “Then where are they? What happens to all the prisoners sentenced to death in the arena?”

Tom lit the joint and inhaled sharply. After he’d held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds, he spoke  raspily on a slow exhale. “You probably don’t want to know.”

Tom offered Mike the joint, and he took it absently, thinking about what he’d just learned. He ignored the twinge of guilt at disobeying Harvey, and they smoked together for a while in silence. Suddenly, Tom sat up straight, glaring through the open doorway at the main room. They’d been sitting toge t h er long enough to finish the joint. 

“I don’t fucking believe it,” Tom hissed, rising slowly to his feet.

“What?” Mike stood up and followed Tom back to the larger room. He noticed hazily that the volume of conversation had escalated since they’d first arrived, competing with the music, which was now a screechy rendering of sixteenth century love sonnets over stacked guitar riffs. He realized belatedly that the pot was much stronger than he was used to. He started to admit as much to Tom, but his host was halfway across the main room already, taking long strides in the direction of the front door.

Deciding he needed some water, Mike headed back to the bar. After he'd gulped down his second glass, his gaze locked onto the food table, which was halfway around the room. Feeling self-conscious, and worried that he appeared high as fuck -- which he was -- he ghosted through the crowd, avoiding eye-contact, trying not to stare at one of the sex pets  bestowing an attention-grabbing blow job, and praying to all the ancient gods he no longer believed in that  the crowd would conceal him and  he wouldn't run into Harvey anytime soon.

He was happily focused on stuffing his cheeks with baked mushrooms, and goat cheese pizza rounds, when he heard a familiar voice cut through the noise like a buz z saw , a voice which nearly had him choking on his food. Swallowing carefully, he dragged a napkin over his greasy lips and turned his gaze across the room, to the front door. He spotted Tom's blond hair, dropped his gaze half a foot and confirmed his worst fears. Katrina  Orsini had arrived, and was involved in a loud, angry argument with the host of the party.

Mike loaded his plate up with a handful of olives, grilled herbed lamb on skewers, and mini Pecorino quiches, while scouting the crowd in search of his boss, thinking that if Katrina was here, they should probably make themselves scarce. He finally located Harvey in a shadowy corner, with his back to the room, and in the middle of what appeared to be an intimate and intense conversation with a pretty, dark-haired woman. 

Mike didn't like the jolt of jealousy he felt at seeing Harvey in what could only be  interpreted as high flirt mod e , with... anybody, actually. A glance back at the front door showed him that Tom and Katrina had separated, and that Harvey's odious apprentice had been admitted to the party. His sluggish thoughts had just advanced enough that he was considering finding somewhere to hide, when Tom reappeared at his side.

"Sorry," Tom said, smiling widely and stealing food from Mike's plate. "My odious cousin has arrived, and I can't convince her to get lost."

Mike guffawed loudly, and then covered his mouth with his hand. "Odious," he snickered, deciding that he was starting to like Tom. "That evil Barbie doll is your cousin?"

Tom sighed, rolling his eyes. "My mom is an  Orsini . Believe me when I tell you, the whole lot of them are rotten to the core. And that one -- " He nodded at Katrina, who had insinuated herself into a conversation between a well known adjudicator and an overly spray-tanned reality star, "may well be the worst one they've bred yet."

"No argument here," Mike muttered.

"You've met her? Hey man, my deepest sympathies."

"Met and been threatened by. Repeatedly. She's Harvey's new apprentice."

Tom winced and shuddered theatrically. " Ew . The  horror ."

They spent a few minutes in companionable silence, attacking Mike's food like two famished hyenas, before going back for more. Mike followed Katrina's blonde head with his eyes as she advanced through the room. When he remembered to check the far corner for Harvey, he and the unknown woman had disappeared. As he absently picked flecks of rosemary from between his teeth, Mike watched Tom polish off the last few olives.

"Your childhood," he mused out loud.

Tom's gaze rose to meet his. "Huh?"

"I mean, you grew up with her, right?"

"Yep. Sure did. Dinner at our house every other Saturday. Having her over at least kept down the squirrel and pigeon populations."

Mike's eyes widened. "Dude. No way."

Tom shrugged. "No proof. I'm just  sayin '….."

"Wow." A few moments passed of mutual gazing into space. "You got any advice? I mean, on how to handle her? I think she wants to eat my liver, or turn me into toxic waste, or  worse ." He remembered something. "Hey. If she gets me sentenced to the arena...I mean, if it's all a big fake, where do I end up?"

" Ssh . Not in here. Keep your fucking voice down." Tom grabbed his arm and dragged him roughly back into the smaller room they had vacated earlier.

Someone had dimmed the lights in the room, and at first, Mike thought one of the sex pets in attendance had been granted some privacy, and had been brought in here to service their owner. He had a confused impression of two partially clothed bodies tangled up on the sofa, one kneeling and facing away, and the second bent over her, pumping into her with impressive speed and vigor, muscular ass pale against the dark brown sofa. Then Tom flipped on the lights, revealing Harvey looking back over his shoulder with an annoyed glare.

"I have bedrooms upstairs for this, Harvey," Tom scolded good-naturedly.

"Get out," Harvey snapped, even as he resumed moving his hips. Both hands were beneath the woman, inside her clothes, and Mike could only imagine how he was employing them on her.

The woman, apparently, wasn't bothered by their presence in the least. She moaned unashamedly, cursing and urging Harvey on. Mike couldn't tear his gaze away from the scene, and it wasn't until Tom placed his hands on Mike's shoulders and forcibly turned him away and marched him out of the room, that he realized he was half hard in his trousers. 

"Wow," said Tom. "I'm going to have to get that sofa professionally cleaned. Huh. I'd heard she managed to wrangle her way back across the border. I suppose it was only a matter of time until she and Harvey got back together. I wonder who invited the adulterous little brat, because I know I didn't."

Mike was shaking his head,  trying to take it all in, and  wishing his brain wasn't quite so fuzzy. "What? She who? This is all new information to me."

He seemed to have lost most of Tom's attention by now. The other man was scanning the room, as if suddenly realizing that he'd been neglecting his other guests. "Dana Scott. She dumped him right after Harvard, but I wouldn't bring that up around him, if I were you." He faced Mike again. "And about my cousin? Best advice I can give there is just to stay as far away from her as you can." He gave Mike's shoulder a brief squeeze. "Great to meet you, Mike. You still owe me one life story. Tell Harvey I'm going to ask him to steal you away from him for a few hours, early next week, maybe."

"What? When?" And then he was talking to empty air, as Tom had darted away to speak to someone else. Mike took a deep breath. Too much was happening all at once. Katrina, and Tom, and fake gladiator fights and -- Harvey. Mike despised himself for feeling jealous, but there it was.

Queasy from all the rich food he'd inhaled earlier, he crept back to the doorway, taking care to remain out of sight, and peered in at Harvey and Dana Scott. They'd evidently humped their way to happy completion, and were busy straightening their clothing in between sharing conspiratorial grins and long, slow kisses.

"Fuck," Mike muttered, irrationally annoyed. He had to turn away before he did something stupid, like bodily insert himself between them, or scratch Dana Scott's dark little doll eyes out of her head. He went in search of an out of the way corner where he could sulk unnoticed until Harvey decided it was time to go home.


	13. Chapter 13

From the corner where he'd stationed himself, Mike heard disjointed pieces of conversations as the guests grouped and moved and regrouped around him.  The noise level and thick, smoky air were working together to give him a headache, so he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.  He was close to dozing off when a hand touched his shoulder.  He jerked in surprise, opening his eyes to find a young man standing next to him, wearing an indenture uniform nearly identical to his own.   

"Sorry," said the stranger.  "I didn't mean to startle you."  He peered closely at Mike's face and shook his head.  "Shit.  You had some of Tom's special blend, didn't you?"  His eyes were dark green with flecks of gold and burnt orange.  His nose was straight, and his lips full and pink. Long, black hair hung down his back in a neat braid.   

"Uh," Mike replied.  "I think...yeah.  I think maybe I did.  What makes it special?"   

"Nobody knows.  Except Tom, of course.  Just don't be alarmed if you start to hallucinate."   

"Alarmed?  At this point, I'd welcome it."   

The other man giggled.  "With this party, who can tell the difference, right?  By the way, my name's Cesare.  And yes, I was named after  _that_  Cesare.  My mom claims she banged him when he came through town on his first concert tour."  He rolled his eyes dramatically.  "According to her, there's a seventy-eight percent chance that he's my father."   

Mike was half-charmed and half-irritated by the man.  He'd never been fond of over-sharing, but maybe this was Cesare’s style of flirting.  Studying him, Mike decided that he wouldn't mind exploring whatever the pretty little man might have on offer.  It had been since...Seattle?  Yes definitely way too long.  He rearranged his face into a smile.  "I'm Mike.  Not named after anybody, except maybe some mundane relative from a previous generation."   

His gaze fell to Cesare's clothes, and then he stole a peek at the tattoo on his upper arm:  a pair of dice and a weeping turtle.  He knew the dice signified a gambling problem, but a turtle?  That one stumped him, but he figured if all Cesare had done to get swept into the system was to gamble his way into insurmountable debt, he probably wasn't a threat to Mike.    

"Which one do you belong to?" Mike asked.   

Using Mike's shoulder for support, Cesare went up on his tiptoes and pointed across the room.  "See that dark-haired woman standing next to the hot guy in the white shirt?  I'm hers."   

Curious, Mike squinted and peered in the direction Cesare had indicated.  When he saw who his new friend was referring to, he sagged back against the wall.  The woman was Dana Scott, recently well-fucked by Harvey Specter, who was still at her side.  Coincidence?  He eyed Cesare suspiciously.  "The guy she's talking to?  I'm his.  Is that why you're over here pretending to show an interest in me?"   

Cesare cupped a hand to one ear, as if he hadn't heard Mike, and while it was loud in the room, Mike suspected he had heard him just fine.  He grabbed Cesare's arm and spoke directly into his perfect little shell-shaped ear.  "Let's find somewhere more quiet."   

Seeming to approve of the plan, Cesare grinned at him and nodded, and then took hold of Mike's hand and dragged him to the stairs at the back of the room.  They climbed rapidly to the second floor, and the vise which had gripped Mike's skull eased marginally as the deafening music and conversation faded away.  They now stood in a long hallway lined with closed doors, from behind which Mike could hear quieter conversations along with enthusiastic non-verbal exchanges.  Evidently this was the place to come for private, uninterrupted sex. 

He smirked at Cesare, already imagining both of them naked and writhing together.   

As they regarded one another, Mike asked the first thing that came into his head.  "What's with the turtle?"  He traced the other man's tattoo, and felt him shiver under his touch.   

"Toronto's not as regimented as New York.  I was allowed to give some input on the design."     

"And...?"   

Cesare sighed and let go of Mike's hand.  "Come on.  Let's see if we can find an unoccupied room."  He moved down the hallway and Mike followed eagerly.  "In here."   

Mike entered a small, dark room, bare except for a single bed and nightstand.   In the light from the hallway, he could see tattered wallpaper with faded roses and tulips hanging on the wall, and a hardwood floor that desperately needed to be sanded and stained.  At least the bed and its linens appeared new and, more importantly, clean.  Mike tried the light switch, which didn't work, and then dropped onto the bed, stretching out on his back.  Yawning, he rubbed his eyes and stared up at the pressed tin ceiling, barely visible above him.  "So.  Did you or did you not bring me here to have your wicked way with me?"   

Cesare didn't answer right away.  He sat on the edge of the bed and traced circles on the bedspread with one finger, not touching Mike.   

Starting to suspect he’d misjudged the situation, Mike tried a different question.  "Did Harvey or Dana Scott ask you to keep an eye on me?"   

"No."   

"Aha.  An answer.  That's progress.  Now how about this one:  are we going to have sex?  Because if we are, we need to make it quick."   

Cesare smiled at him, suddenly seeming shy.  "I wouldn't mind.  But we're about to be interrupted."   

"By who?"   

"By me," said a voice from the doorway.  Her face was hidden in the shadows, but something about her seemed familiar.   

"And you are...?"   

“I guess you were kind of out of, last time I saw you.”  She moved forward, and now Mike could see her more clearly.  

“Rachel?”  

She smiled.  “So you do remember me.”  She sat on the bed near his hip, replacing Cesare, who had stood up and gone to the doorway.    

“What are you doing here?” he asked stupidly, struggling to recall the conversation they’d had while he was doped up on painkillers, which remained vague, but suddenly seemed important.    

“I got a call from a friend letting me know they’d spotted you here.  We’ve been waiting for the right moment to contact you, and this seemed like a perfect opportunity.  Tom's known for his wild parties, where anything goes, and nobody's going to notice another face in this crowd.”  

“Contact me?”  

“We have a way to get you out of New York.  In two weeks -- ”  

“Wait.  Get me out?”  Mike sat up and moved back so he was leaning against the headboard.  “What in hells are you talking about?  I’m indentured.  You have to be aware of that.  I mean, look at what I'm wearing.  You were there when I got my tattoo.” 

Annoyance twisted Rachel’s mouth.  “We went over this, Mike.  Shit, you really don’t remember?  Fine.  I hate repeating myself, but I will.  You’re in danger.  You’re being watched.  The government wants your memories." 

"My what?" 

"Your memories.  Everything you know about the rebel network.  If Harvey can’t trick the information out of you -- " 

"Harvey?" 

"Yes, Mike.  I warned you not to trust him.  He has only a limited amount of time to get you to open up, and if he isn't able to, imperial inquisitors will take over the job.  It won't be pleasant, and they will succeed.  You’re both running out of time.”  

Mike closed his eyes and shook his head roughly.  “Is this the hallucination you warned me about, Cesare?”  When there was no answer, he opened his eyes and realized that he was alone in the room with Rachel.  “Shit.  Was Cesare a hallucination?”  

Rachel slapped his leg hard.  “Mike.  Focus.  Cesare is out in the hallway making sure we aren't disturbed.  Now listen to me.  Two weeks from tonight, you’ll need to slip away from Harvey and make your way to this address.”  She rattled off a location in Brooklyn, which Mike stored away, even if he was still confused. 

“I can’t just 'slip away',” he protested.  “Harvey keeps me locked up at work.  And I can’t anticipate his schedule in the evenings.”  

Rachel handed him a complicated looking metal instrument the length of his pinkie finger, and as thin as an uncooked piece of spaghetti.  “This should work on just about any lock.  If you’ve never used one before, search YouTube for an instructional video.  There are dozens of them.  Oh, and you need to get your hands on some different clothes.  That uniform will give you away in a second.” 

Mike's head was spinning with the effort to digest everything Rachel was telling him.  He rubbed a hand across his tattoo, frowning.  "And what about this?  Harvey can track me down anywhere with the chip they planted underneath here."  

"This is not my first time at the chariot races, Mike.  When you meet your contact, the first thing they will do is take care of that chip.  They're easy enough to remove, and we can use it for some misdirection while we get you out of here." 

"But...I'm not sure I can leave New York that soon.  Things have gotten complicated."  He was thinking of Trevor, and thinking of Harvey as well.  "I'm not sure I can wrap things up in just two weeks.  I may need more time." 

Rachel leaned closer, her eyes dark and huge, her expression serious and subtly threatening.  "Did you hear anything I said?  This is not a request.  You have information in your head that could damage the rebel network in ways that would set us back for years -- decades, maybe.  We won't allow that to happen.  I like you, Mike, and personally, I'd prefer to get you free, so you can disappear into the provinces, or better yet, commit yourself more firmly to our fight.  But don't doubt for a second that if the government makes one move to take you from Harvey Specter's custody, that special, highly dangerous brain of yours is your death warrant.  You won't even make it to the inquisition center, because we've got eyes on you all the time.  Am I clear?"  

He held her gaze for several long moments.  His gut told him she was sincere.  He couldn't believe he'd let his guard down so badly.  Rachel's warning at the tattoo station came back to him fully now.  He couldn't trust his advocate -- couldn't trust Harvey.  That's what she'd said.  But...how did that even add up?  In the days he'd been with Harvey, he'd never tried to pry any information out of Mike.  In fact, he hadn't seemed at all interested in Mike's past, or his years on the run.  Unease wound through him.  Was he really supposed to believe Rachel, who he barely knew, and who had just basically threatened his life? 

And then there was Cesare, who was apparently tied to the rebel cause, but was also the indenture of Dana Scott, who had a past -- and a present, it seemed -- with Harvey.  He thunked his head back against the wooden headboard and gave a low groan.  He felt as if he'd dived headfirst down the rabbit hole, cracked his head, and drank too deeply from the wrong bottle. 

"All right," he finally conceded, "I'll allow you and your friends to liberate me, since it seems I don't have much choice in the matter anyway.  But after that, you and your rebel buddies can go fuck yourselves.  When I get out of New York, we part ways." 

Now Rachel looked disappointed in him.  "Then I guess you haven't learned anything, have you?  You've seen how the system works, up close and personal, and you can still walk away from what we're trying to accomplish?"  She shook her head sadly.  "I hope you rethink that over the next two weeks, and that you change your mind."  

There wasn't much left to say after that, and Rachel seemed to be in a hurry to leave.  He watched her go with regret, and nearly called her back to tell her he'd changed his mind already, but the truth was that he hadn't.  The rebels he'd met had been such a disorganized and undisciplined group that he couldn't see how they were ever going to change everything that needed changing.  And the more he thought about as he sat in the dark bedroom, if the government really was after his memories, it would be just as well if he didn't collect any more damning information. 

He could have dozed off then.  He was suddenly exhausted and wished he had never come to this party.  Seeing Harvey with Dana Scott had upset him more than he would have imagined. And being reminded by Rachel that Harvey was the enemy...if that was even true.  He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed, and then was startled to see Cesare standing in the doorway, watching him. 

"Did you hear all of that?" Mike asked him. 

"No.  But I know why Rachel was here." 

"Does your...does Dana Scott know you're working with the rebels?"  

Cesare placed one finger over his lips and moved further into the room, closing the door behind him.  "All I can tell you is that she was sent here to make contact with Harvey."  

"Are they...."  He didn't know how to phrase any of the questions that jostled together in his mind, so he switched directions.  "How long have you been with her?" 

"Five years.  And I know you're wondering, so I'll tell you that I had a gambling problem and managed to lose the family home.  My mother used me to pay off the debt.  As far as I'm concerned, Dana is my family now, and I'd do anything for her." 

"And Harvey...." 

"If she still has feelings for him, which I doubt, they're irrelevant."  

"Oh."  Mike wondered if that went both ways, but couldn't bring himself to ask.  Cesare hadn't really cleared anything up for him, but for some reason he felt better than he had a few minutes earlier.  He gave the pretty young man a speculative look, but Cesare was already opening the door and moving into the hallway. 

"We'd better get back downstairs," Cesare said.  He stopped suddenly, and his hands went to Mike's hair, which he ruffled up.  "If anyone asks, we were up here rolling around together for the last half hour.  Not much I can do with that uniform.  These things are pretty much immune to wrinkles and rips.  Hmm....Maybe this would make it more convincing."  He placed a hand behind Mike's neck and drew his face down to his level before surprising him with a thorough kiss that lasted for nearly a minute.  It was nice, but not exactly earth-shattering.  He drew back, considered Mike, and then leaned in again to give his lower lip a quick nip.  "There you go.  You look reasonably well-kissed." 

Cesare grabbed Mike's hand and dragged him back to the stairs and down to the first floor.  The party was still in full swing, and seemed to have gotten even louder and more frenetic while they'd been upstairs.  Mike heard his name being called, and then Cesare giggled theatrically and pulled him against the closest wall, where he threw himself against Mike, sucking on his neck and letting his hands roam underneath his shirt. 

"Mike." 

Harvey stood in front of them, scowling and looking like he wanted to punch somebody -- Mike, or Cesare, or maybe just the wall, he couldn't say for sure.  Mike gently disentangled himself from Cesare and smiled, trying to hide his nervousness.  "Harvey.  Hi.  I was just -- I mean, we were – “ 

"Yes, I can see for myself what you're doing.  I don’t care.  I've been looking for you for at least twenty minutes.  It's late and we need to go home.”  He turned on his heel and headed for the door, clearly expecting Mike to follow, which, after a brief goodbye to Cesare, he did, practically running to catch up and walk at his side out into the chilly night air. 

To Mike, Harvey seemed distracted and on edge -- not what he would have expected from a man who had so recently had such an... _athletic_...reunion with a former flame.  Mike was reasonably certain that Harvey didn't know he'd witnessed them together, and couldn't resist asking, all innocence, as he got into the passenger seat and heard -- and felt -- how hard Harvey slammed the driver's side door, "Fun party, right?  Did you have a good time?" 

Harvey's jaw tightened, but he didn't bother answering Mike's question.  He merely snapped, "Put on your seatbelt," and tore away from the curb as if Cerberus himself was in pursuit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. This chapter took forever to write. Sorry about that. Thanks for sticking with the story.


	14. Chapter 14

The next day, Harvey was still furious with himself. Running into Scottie had caught him by surprise, and like a fool, he'd fallen again for her soft lilac scent and all of her pretty little tricks, had allowed himself to be seduced by the memory of her sweet, tight little pussy and her wild responses. She'd been every bit the hot fuck he remembered, but right on schedule, before they even had their clothing put back to rights, she'd revealed her ulterior motives.

“Thanks, Harvey,” she said, peering into a compact mirror and reapplying her lipstick. “You’re my cover for being here tonight. That ought to convince everyone that we’re an item again.”

He gave her an incredulous glare which she pretended not to notice. “Your cover for what, exactly? I thought I made it clear that I’m not getting involved in your latest…project.”

Earlier, Scottie had explained how she’d wrangled an entry visa from Toronto on the pretext of legal work for her boss, Edward Darby, but in reality was planning to set up halfway houses for desperate indentures who needed a way out, with an eye to eventually smuggling them out of the country. She and her abolitionist associates seemed to be taking the latest Ancient Empire nonsense seriously.

She shrugged one delicate shoulder. "Oh, nothing special. Just for being out in this sort of crowd. I’m probably being watched pretty closely after some of the speeches I made in Toronto. And now I show up in New York, at this particular time.”

“Scottie. What are you talking about? What particular time?”

He followed her back out into the main room.

“Come on, Harvey, you have to be aware of what’s going on. The latest bill up for a vote has a real chance of passing. We've heard whispers -- more than whispers, actually -- that those Ancient Empire nutcases have cut some kind of deal with Deputy Proconsul Orsini."

He grimaced and headed for the bar, knowing that she would follow. "That sounds like a load of horse shit to me." He handed her a glass of wine and took his own snifter of brandy. "Orsini is out of favor these days. What could he possibly bring to the table?"

She shook her head and gave him a pitying look. "You should keep up with current events. I assume you saw that 'evidence' clearing your client, Galen Clarke, of murder?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So, less than an hour after that appeared, Clarke held a press conference, providing Orsini with an alibi for pretty much every single one of the indiscretions he's been accused of, complete with some compelling videos and photos stored on Clarke’s phone, all with the appropriate time and date stamps."

Harvey could only stare at her in disbelief for a moment, and then anger surged through him. "That stupid little shit. Why does he even bother to keep me on retainer if he's going to continue pulling stunts like that? Do you think he could possibly be telling the truth?"

Scottie shrugged, her look saying clearly that she didn't think so. "It's all airtight, of course, and Orsini is playing it up as if he was just elected proconsul, which isn't that far outside of the realm of possibility, since all of his former detractors are going to be dining on some succulent crow and kissing his ass for a while now. He's riding a tidal wave of momentum. Since those Ancient Empire fossils supported him through all of the scandals, he owes them big, and right now he also has the moderate votes he needs to get almost anything passed. I'm afraid that means the indenture laws are going to change in the very near future, and things are going to get plenty ugly."

"Great," Harvey said heavily. He glanced around the room, craning his neck to see if he could locate Mike. He seemed to have disappeared for the moment.

"Let me give you some advice, Harvey. Keep that indenture of yours close. I've seen the most recent draft of the new law, and it basically strips all indentures of any rights they still had, and gives any free person, anywhere and at any time, the authority to enforce the law."

"That's insane. The opportunity for abuse -- "

"Just skyrocketed, straight through the roof," she finished for him. She sipped her wine and eyed him shrewdly. "Having second thoughts about trying to remain neutral?"

"Scottie...."

"Oh, I know. Harvey Specter has to stay above it all. Doesn't want to dirty his hands in the filthy compost heap of imperial politics." Her words didn't surprise Harvey. They'd had this argument, or one similar to it, many times over, beginning back at Harvard. What did surprise him was the biting bitterness in her voice.

He drank deeply from his brandy snifter, letting the spreading warmth inside of him smooth out his spike of temper. "Politics aren't for me. You know that. I don't have any family connections, and frankly, I'm not sure I possess strong enough convictions on anything to make a difference."

"Really? How would you feel if some stranger decided they didn't care for Mike's attitude when you sent him out to fetch your coffee, and restrained and beat him on the spot, or even raped him because they knew they would never be prosecuted for harming a slave? I can tell by the look in your eyes, and by the telltale way you're clenching your jaw that you wouldn't like it one bit."

"A sense of human decency isn't exactly something to base a political career on. Quite the opposite, from all available evidence."

She shook her head, disappointment clear on her face. "That right there. That's the attitude that insures that nothing will ever change for the better."

"What do you want from me, Scottie?"

"I want you to talk to that dipshit client of yours. Galen Clarke needs to come clean and admit that those photos are fake."

He sighed. She knew better than that. "He may be a dipshit, but he's still my client. I'm paid to look after his interests, and admitting to that sort of fraud is certainly not in his best interests."

She shook her head while rolling her eyes. "You should stop counting up your fees and consider the principle of the thing for once."

He slammed his drink down on the nearest table. "Gods damn it, Scottie. Why don't you get down off your high horse for once and join the rest of us in the real world?"

She held up her hands as if she wanted to push him away. "Fine. When everything goes to shit, don't say I didn't warn you. Thanks again for the fuck, Harvey. It was delightful. And completely adequate." She spun away and he quickly lost sight her in the press of the crowd.

Feeling as if steam was pouring from his ears, he scanned the room again, half prepared to leave whether he found Mike or not. Luckily, his indenture had reappeared. Harvey found him being mauled by Cesare, who was probably following orders from Scottie. Anxious to leave, Harvey brushed off Mike's stuttered excuses and swept away towards the door. He didn't wait to see if Mike would follow him, but was still secretly pleased to hear his rapid footsteps behind him.

 

Now, reminiscing darkly on the previous night, Harvey glanced across his office at Mike. He'd apparently grown sleepy after lunch, and lay stretched out on his pallet, snoring softly. It should have been annoying, but somehow Harvey found it weirdly endearing and even soothing.

He had thought about everything Scottie had told him concerning the upcoming vote, and had lost much of his night's sleep worrying how it might affect Mike. In the end, he had come to the conclusion that all he could do was keep Mike close, keep him safe, and not draw any unwanted attention to either of them. He'd keep his head down and stay out of trouble, which experience had taught him was the best way to deal with the whims of the imperial government.

Around three o'clock, he heard a quiet warning issue from Donna via the intercom: "Incoming," she whispered. He looked up, surprised to find Katrina in his doorway, with Galen Clarke hovering at her elbow. Despite how adamant Katrina had been about avoiding Mike, she seemed to have developed the irritating habit of visiting his office on a daily basis.

He ignored her and addressed himself to the overly spray-tanned man beside her. "Hello, Galen. What’s new? I wish I had time to catch up, but I'm a little busy at the moment. Make an appointment with Donna if you want a meeting." He pretended to concentrate on the documents stacked in front of him on his desk.

"Aw, don't be like that Harvey," said Clarke, slurring his words slightly. Drunk or high, Harvey guessed. "I don't blame you for the lapse. No one can stay at the top of their game all the time. I mean, look at me. My last movie was a major flop, but they still keep offering me roles." He gave a high-pitched laugh and collapsed into one of the chairs facing Harvey's desk.

More like his last three movies, Harvey thought, but didn't say it out loud. He leaned back in his chair, chewing on the end of a pen. "What do you want from me? Seems like you've decided to handle all your problems on your own. If you're here to get your retainer back, you could have just called. I'll let Accounting know to cut you a check and mail it out tomorrow."

Clarke ran a hand through his close-cropped curly blonde hair and grinned at Harvey. "You're awfully young to be turning into such a curmudgeon. Don't worry, man. I still want you in my corner. But this lovely young lady...." He paused to smile coyly up at Katrina. "She and her father have been so kind and accommodating that I would have to be a complete jackass if I didn't reward her somehow. So, starting immediately, I want her as principal advocate on all of my business from now on. With suitable compensation, of course."

Harvey glanced at Katrina, and wished briefly that it was permissible to slap the smugness right off of her face. He struggled to find his patience, waiting until he could trust his voice, and then said to Clarke, "I understand that you must be grateful to the Orsinis. However, not only do you have a signed retainer agreement on file with me, which clearly prevents you from replacing me with any other Pearson Hardman advocate without my consent, but Ms. Orsini is still an apprentice. She's been employed here for a grand total of three days."

Katrina stepped forward, her expression telegraphing clearly that she was tremendously pleased with herself. "My status is the very reason that he _can_ retain me. No other _advocate_ can replace you, but I'm not an advocate."

Harvey had opened his mouth to explain to her why she was oh so very wrong, when Mike spoke up from where he was reclining on the floor, voice still gravelly from sleep as he gazed up at the ceiling. "Wrong as usual, princess. Your employment contract lays out quite plainly the parameters of your acceptable business intake during your 60 day probationary period." He proceeded to recite verbatim and at great length from the document in question.

Harvey let him go on for a while, enjoying the effect on Katrina of hearing what she considered a lowly indenture school her in contracts and the law. When he observed her eyes narrow, her mouth tighten and her fists begin to look like claws, he raised a hand. “That’s fine, Mike. Thank you.”

“What,” hissed Katrina, “was that?”

Clarke was grinning in Mike’s direction. “Is he yours, Harvey? Cute _and_ smart. You lucky bastard.”

Katrina took a step closer to Mike. “No, I’m serious. What the _fuck_ is he doing snooping into my business? This is beyond outrageous.”

Mike sat up and smiled sweetly at her. “Not just yours. I got bored and went on the firm’s intranet. I found the document management system and started reading. Being fairly recent, your contract was near the top of the list.”

“Mike….” Harvey put a heavy hint of warning in his voice, but Mike either didn’t hear it, or chose to ignore it.

“And since Mr. Clarke is a current concern of Harvey’s, I went ahead and committed everything referencing his name to memory. After that, I just sort of…browsed.”

Katrina laughed, the sound scraping across Harvey’s nerves like a talon on a chalkboard. “You? How could you understand a complex legal document, much less remember more than a few words?”

“Ooh. Ouch. It stings not to be the smartest girl in the class, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Harvey interjected, “Mike is just playing with you, Katrina.” He gave Mike a pointed look, striving to communicate the urgent need for Mike to shut his mouth, but Mike seemed determined to goad her further.

“Try me,” he said, slowly rising to his feet. “I’m sure you’ve thoroughly familiarized yourself with…let’s say Galen’s latest contract renewal with his publicist. Would you like me to recite paragraph four to you?”

“No, I don’t think so. That’s probably the only thing you’ve memorized. Make it paragraph thirteen. Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

Mike shrugged. “You got it. ‘13. In the event Publicist has not received payment from Artist for services rendered hereunder for the period of three months, Publicist shall have the option and right to cease and desist from working in the client's behalf and to take action against him for nonpayment. In such case, or any other similar case which nullifies this agreement, Publicist will abide by all confidentiality agreements in effect at the time of said nullification.’ Is that enough, or should I go on to paragraph 14?”

“That’s plenty, Mike,” Harvey said. He could see that Mike was itching to continue the demonstration, so Harvey pointed at the chair, and knowing it would rankle Mike, ordered in his sternest voice, “Sit, boy.”

Mike’s cheek’s reddened at the demeaning treatment, but he sat slowly at his desk.

Katrina’s attention continued to be zeroed in on Mike. She took another step towards him. “Are you saying that you memorized… _how many_ documents?”

“Since this morning? A couple of hundred.”

Harvey nearly growled in frustration. “Mike. I said that’s enough. Not another word.”

“Well, aren’t you a surprise.” Katrina smiled at Mike, eyes filled with malicious glee. “I’d like to find out more about this amazing memory of yours.”

Mike finally seemed to realize that he had revealed too much. He glanced at Harvey, who caught just a hint of panic in Mike’s expression before it was wiped carefully away.

Galen Clarke was snapping his fingers, face screwed up in concentration. “I know what this is. My personal assistant, two, no three PA’s ago, did the same thing. Threw out his blackberry and said he could remember my schedule with some fancy mind trick…something with rooms and flowers. Shit, I don’t remember. But he completely fucked up my call times on _Dante’s Revenge_ and got me in all kinds of hot water with the studio. A complete moron.” He broke into a fond smile. “But a great lay. His mouth could do things….” He stopped, seeming to suddenly realize that everyone else was staring at him. “What?”

The room was silent for a few seconds.

“Nevertheless,” Katrina gritted out, “it seems that Harvey’s found himself a real gem.” She stopped her steady stalk towards Mike, as if she knew exactly how far his chain could reach. “You know, I believe my father would love to meet you.”

Harvey was on his feet before he realized he was moving. “Stop. That’s enough. I don’t have time for this shit. Galen, whatever…” _idiotic_ “…ill-considered ideas Katrina has been feeding you, the fact remains that unless you plan on firing all of Pearson Hardman, I’m still your advocate. As such, my advice to you is to go home, stay out of sight, and wait for my call. No more press conferences. And if anyone expresses a desire to question you, and I do mean _anyone_ , I expect you to call me immediately. Are we clear?”

Clarke gave an exaggerated shrug, at the same time pulling a face probably meant to represent charming chagrin. “I love it when you get forceful, Harvey.” When Harvey didn’t react, he frowned. “Fine. I promise I’ll be good.” His face took on a sly look, and Harvey wondered if he planned to run through each and every theatrical expression in his repertoire. “By the way, if you ever grow tired of…” He pointed at Mike. “I’d be happy to take him off your hands. Just name your price.”

“Galen.” Harvey gave him a pained grimace. “Get out.”

The actor held up his hands and grinned, fake-white teeth blinding in his fake-tan face. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, right?”

“Take her with you.” Harvey sat down and gave a negligent wave in Katrina’s direction. “And close the door behind you.” Pretending to be engrossed in his work, he waited until they were gone before looking over at Mike. “What in all the hells, Mike. What did I say about keeping a low profile?”

“Nothing that I can recall. Oh you mean that stuff about acting like a well-trained dog?” When Harvey remained silent, Mike’s mulish expression crumbled a little. “I’m sorry, but she just gets under my skin.”

“I understand that. But next time you’re tempted to show what a gods damned prodigy you are, don’t.”

Mike heaved a long sigh. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, lengthening the last word. “I’m bored.”

“I can’t do anything about that. I have a couple more hours of work to do before we can go.” He tapped his pen on the desk. “Did you really memorize all those documents?”

“Nah. I could have, but I knew she wouldn’t have bothered to look at any of them, so I took a chance.”

Harvey gave an unwilling grunt of laughter. The kid had nerve, he had to give him that. He just hoped the little stunt he’d pulled didn’t end up blowing up in his face.

 

******

 

Mike lay stretched out on Harvey’s couch, the television playing footage from classic chariot races of past years. He yawned, wondering how people could waste entire weekends watching this stuff. He picked up the remote and flipped through the channels, finally settling on a movie that was halfway over, featuring the randy exploits of an imperial gladiator. He glanced towards the kitchen, where Harvey sat at the counter, paging through something on his tablet, face serious and intent. Next to his elbow was a half empty glass of iced pear brandy.

Mike sucked in his lower lip, thinking. He hadn’t been kidding earlier, when he’d complained to Harvey that he was bored. More than that, though, he could feel time slipping away from him. Katrina’s mysterious Lola was supposed to dig up dirt on him sometime in the next few days, and his rendezvous with the rebels was now less than two weeks away. Harvey hadn’t mentioned Trevor lately, and Mike wondered if he’d forgotten about him, or was hoping that Mike had.

Fat chance of that. He just needed to devise some way to get away from Harvey for a few hours so he could sneak out and take care of Trevor. There had to be some way to get him to let down his guard and leave Mike alone for a while. He chewed on his thumbnail and thought hard, finally coming up with the beginning of a plan. In the end, it might or might not do the trick, but at least it would alleviate his boredom for a while. He clicked off the television, stood up and wandered over to join Harvey, sliding onto the stool next to him.

“Watcha doing?” he asked Harvey.

In return, he got an annoyed glance from the other man. “Catching up on the news.”’

“You realize those imperial websites are nothing but lies and propaganda, right?”

Harvey didn’t respond, just kept reading as if Mike wasn’t there, so Mike screwed up his courage and reached over to place a hand on Harvey’s knee. After several seconds of absolutely no response, Harvey shot him an affronted look. Mike licked his lips and tried to appear alluring.

“Mike. What are you doing?”

He trailed a finger up the inside of Harvey’s thigh, and then let out a yelp when Harvey grabbed his hand, squeezing a little too hard.

“I asked you a question. What are you doing?”

Mike laughed breathlessly. “If you have to ask, I guess I’m not doing it right.” It wasn’t easy, but he managed to maintain eye contact with Harvey, who was studying him with a hard gaze.

“You’re attempting to seduce me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not working?”

Harvey let go of Mike’s hand and turned his body so that they were facing one another. He reached for his glass of brandy, which was sweating onto the marble countertop, and took a long drink while considering Mike. “Is this a serious effort, or are you still just bored?”

“Uh. Both?”

“And you…what? Want me to fuck you?” Harvey appeared amused and detached, which was more than a little infuriating.

_Do I want that?_ Mike considered lying to himself, telling himself this was simply a strategy to soften Harvey up towards him, part of Mike’s long game, but the truth was he did want it. He’d wanted it almost since the moment he’d seen Harvey that first time. He decided to be as truthful as he dared. “I’m… _mildly_ attracted to you. I’m horny. And yes, I’m bored. I figure, what can it hurt? You have the right to take me. It’s all spelled out in our contract, so you don’t need to feel guilty about it afterwards. Unless you’re worried about your little hookup from last night…?”

Harvey’s features tightened at the mention of Dana Scott, and Mike remembered suddenly that he wasn’t supposed to have seen their frantic coupling in the back room. He felt himself blushing, and started to wish he hadn’t started this.

“My _little hookup_ ,” Harvey said, sounding irritated, “is none of your business.” He took another drink, looking Mike up and down. “I don’t know. Are you even worth my time?”

Mike cringed inside at the scorn dripping from Harvey’s voice. Ignoring the blush which he could feel spreading over his face, he said, “Try me.”

“Hm,” was the only response.

Feeling now as if he had something to prove, Mike stood up and shoved his stool out of the way, ignoring the metallic clatter it made as it fell to the floor somewhere behind him. He crouched in front of Harvey and unfastened the other man’s trousers, pulled down the zipper to expose the front of his boxer briefs. He didn’t dare look up at Harvey, but the other man didn’t pull away, sitting passively as if waiting to see what Mike would do next.

He ran the heel of his hand up and down the front of Harvey’s briefs, feeling his cock stir and begin to plump up underneath his touch. When it had hardened nicely, he leaned in, turned his head to the side, and sucked through the fabric, moistening it, licking up the outlined length before pulling down the waistband to liberate the mushroom-shaped head. His tongue flicked out to collect the pre-come already leaking from the slit and he hummed in approval at the salty, musky taste. He closed his lips around the head, teased underneath it with his tongue, and finally heard a reaction from Harvey, who gave a surprised sounding grunt.

Mike sucked gently for a few seconds, then pulled off and used the flat of his tongue to lick a slow stripe up the underside. He pushed Harvey’s underwear further out of the way and reached back to fondle what he could reach of his balls, stroking over them with the back of one finger. With his other hand, he held the base of Harvey’s cock and sucked the rest into his mouth.

“Shit,” Harvey whispered. “That’s good.” One of his hands cupped the back of Mike’s head, fingers digging into his scalp.

Encouraged, Mike took Harvey’s cock all the way in, feeling it bump up against the back of his throat. He swallowed around it, again and again, while Harvey groaned out his approval above him. When he grew dizzy from lack of air, he lifted his head, letting Harvey’s cock slide from his mouth. He looked up at Harvey, right in the eye and asked, “So, what’s the verdict? Am I worth your time?”

Harvey’s eyes darkened. “Fucking tease.” The gentle way that he petted Mike’s head didn’t match his warning tone of voice. He stroked a hand down the side of Mike’s face, thumbing his lower lip. “You do make a compelling case. All right. I’m convinced. We’ll do this. Just don’t make the mistake of starting to think that this means anything.”

He seemed to be waiting for agreement from Mike, so he said, keeping his voice light, “That won’t be a problem.”

“Glad to hear it. Well then, go on into my bedroom and get undressed. I’ll be there in a minute.”

A small voice counseling caution in the back of Mike’s mind was trying to get his attention, but he ignored it and did as Harvey had ordered. Once he was undressed, he did a quick recon for supplies. He found lube – a particularly expensive brand -- but no condoms. He was scrabbling around in the back of the drawer in the nightstand when he heard Harvey enter the bedroom behind him.

“Please tell me you have some condoms around here somewhere,” Mike said, trying not to sound too distraught.

“Don’t need them.”

Mike turned around to stare at him. “What? Hold on a minute, Harvey. Just because the contract says – ”

Harvey spoke as he unbuttoned his shirt, eyes on Mike’s body. “You were tested during your…unfortunate incarceration. I have official documentation declaring you cleared for unprotected penetration of any type deemed appropriate and at the sole and undisputed discretion of the contract holder – me.”

Mike chose to ignore the insultingly bureaucratic legalese and focus on his main concern. “Yeah, I’m clean, but what about you? Just last night…you and she… for all I know….” He grabbed his briefs off the floor where he’d dropped them, meaning to get dressed again, but paused when he felt Harvey’s hand on his arm.

“Mike. Calm down. You have nothing to worry about. Don’t believe me? See for yourself.”

Harvey showed Mike a small device he held in his hand, about twice the size of a cell phone. Mike tossed his briefs away and took it from him, squinting as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to be looking at. As realization dawned, his eyes widened. “Holy shit. You own a handheld med-scanner? I didn’t even know they made them this small.” He pressed a switch to turn it on, watching the digital display light up with blue and green and red numbers. “Exactly how much money do you have?”

“None of your business.” Harvey tossed his shirt in the hamper and stripped out of his trousers and briefs. He held his arms out to his sides. “Go on. Put your mind at ease.”

It was a struggle for Mike to drag his gaze away from Harvey’s gloriously naked form, but he managed. He held the med-scanner in front of Harvey’s face and began slowly moving it downwards. “So fucking _Star Trek_ ,” he muttered. When he’d reached Harvey’s feet, he moved behind him and repeated the process. “Your heart rate’s a little elevated. Blood pressure at the high end of normal. You broke your left wrist at least once. You have a nice ass. And there’s a big empty hole where your heart should be.”

Harvey scowled and snatched the scanner away from him. “It’s not a toy. Satisfied?”

“Not yet, but judging by your high sperm count, I soon will be.”

“Mike….”

“Fine. No STD’s detected. You’re cleared for unprotected penetration. Oh, and look – here I am, cleared to be penetrated. Sounds like a romance for the ages. Let’s do it.” He climbed onto the bed on his hands and knees, trying to act as if he engaged in callous, pre-meditated, impersonal sex every day of the week. The reality was, he could scarcely draw a decent breath at the thought of anyone – especially Harvey – riding him bareback for the first time.

The bed dipped next to him and a warm palm landed on his hip. “You can still back out, Mike.”

Harvey’s hand rubbed soothing circles on his lower back. To Mike, the touch felt suspiciously possessive, and while that should have pissed him off, instead it started a slow burn of arousal in his lower belly. “I’m not backing out,” he said, voice sounding just as on edge as he felt. “Just…what with all the traveling and jail time, it’s been a while since I bottomed, so don’t skimp on the lube, all right?”

Harvey paused, and then continued his gentle stroking. “Understood.”

The hand left him, leaving a chill behind. Mike heard the lube bottle being pumped a few times. Harvey’s hand returned to separate his cheeks. A cold, wet finger found his hole and rubbed over it, causing Mike to squirm restlessly. One fingertip pushed carefully inside of him, moving in a circular motion, slowly opening him up. Wanting more, Mike moved back to meet it, practically sitting back onto Harvey’s finger. It slid in past the ring of muscle and Mike sighed in pure pleasure.

“Obviously, you’re no virgin,” Harvey murmured, fucking his finger in and out and adding a second.

“I may have possibly overstated – ah, yeah, right there – my state of unreadiness.” He really hadn’t, but he didn’t want to run the risk of Harvey changing his mind, now that they were here and the festivities had begun.

Harvey had three fingers stuffed into him now. He laughed breathlessly. “You are tight. But you love this, don’t you?” He gave a particularly forceful shove, making Mike gasp and push back, chasing more. “Yeah, I think you’re ready for me.”

Harvey removed his fingers. Mike looked over his shoulder so he could watch as Harvey slicked up his cock with lube. The sight made his mouth go dry. He faced forward again, grabbed a pillow to his chest, lowered his head and spread his knees wider. The head of Harvey’s cock brushed Mike’s crack, and he jumped nervously.

“Settle down,” Harvey soothed, petting his back. “It’s just me.”

Mike nearly laughed out loud at that. Who else would it be? Then Harvey began the slow push into him, and Mike didn’t feel like laughing at all. Despite how good Harvey’s fingers had felt, he was a big man, and Mike was feeling every inch of him as he forced his way into his tight channel. “Ahhh fu-uck,” Mike groaned, taking short, careful breaths and trying to relax. “Wait. Just…wait a second.”

Harvey paused and long seconds passed with only the sound of their discordant breathing – Harvey’s long and slow, Mike’s short and erratic. “Mike?” Harvey’s voice sounded strained.

Mike tried to match his breathing to Harvey’s, slowing it down, willing himself to relax. He pushed back at the same time Harvey pressed forward, and Harvey’s cock slid home, filling and stretching him. Mike shifted, hyper-aware of Harvey’s unsheathed, hot length pulsing inside of him in time with his own heartbeats. He lifted his head, arching his neck, shivering at how personal, how _intimate_ it felt like this. He gulped in air, trying to catch his breath.

“Mike.” Harvey’s voice was an urgent whisper in his air. “You okay?”

Mike nodded rapidly. “Do it,” he managed to get out. “Move.” When Harvey didn’t immediately comply, Mike bit out, “Gods damn it. Fuck me already.”

Harvey pulled halfway out and thrust back in. When Mike’s only response was a long, shuddering moan, he seemed to take that as his signal to let go. He started slow and steady, and Mike settled in for a long, hard fuck. At first, no more words passed between them while Harvey rode him, gradually increasing his pace, grunting softly with the force of his thrusts. Mike held onto his pillow for dear life and endured the battering, remaining uncomfortable and somewhat detached from the proceedings until Harvey shifted, changing his angle, and slammed up against Mike’s prostate.

" _Zeus!_ ” Mike yelled. “Ah, gods. _Fuck_.”

Harvey made a small sound of triumph and increased his pace, nailing Mike’s prostate with escalating force. “Jack yourself off,” he panted, breath hot against the back of Mike’s neck.

Mike worked a hand underneath himself, but held the base of his cock, not wanting to come too soon. He was already so close.

“Come on, Mike. I’m not going – fuck, so tight – not going to last.” Harvey lifted up slightly, grabbing Mike under the hips and taking him with him. He braced his other hand on Mike’s shoulder and set a brutal pace, jarring Mike and shaking the bed with the speed and force of his movements. Squeezing his eyes shut, Mike stroked himself rapidly, curses and grunts escaping through his gritted teeth. “Come for me Mike,” Harvey grated. “I want to see you come apart.”

Half a dozen strokes later, Mike did just that. The orgasm ripped through him fast and hard, and he froze with his mouth open, unable for a moment to make a sound. Then he erupted with a strangled, wordless yell. Harvey’s hips stuttered and held still, cock buried deep, and Mike felt him pulse hotly inside of him, felt the gush of his release, heard his low, satisfied groan as a rumble that vibrated through both of their bodies. Strong arms held his middle like a vise while Harvey shuddered and shook, his entire body pressing Mike to the mattress. Finally, Harvey grew still, and moments later he pulled out of Mike. Warm cum slid down his inner thigh.

Almost immediately, Harvey rolled away from him. He was silent for half a minute, and then, “Close the door on your way out,” he murmured sleepily, and that was it.

Mike stared at the back of Harvey’s head, opened his mouth, closed it with a snap, got up and left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, kind of a long wait for this. Apologies for that. The good news is, I'm not currently working on any other stories, and can devote my full attention to this for a while. There's a ways to go, with twists and turns and whatnot. I'm going to do my best to post once a week, and apologize in advance if I'm unable to keep to that. Thanks for sticking with this story.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a couple of tags.

Halfway through the next morning, Mike's sullen silence began to grate on Harvey's nerves. That, coupled with the ongoing distraction of watching him shift uncomfortably in his seat, finally proved to be too much, and Harvey decided he needed to put some distance between them. Without a word, he stood and left his office, handing off Mike's key to an uncharacteristically silent Donna.

On the elevator ride down to the lobby, however, he could not stop himself from remembering in exquisite detail how it had felt to be buried inside the boy, and he kept replaying the sounds Mike had made beneath him as they moved together.

He refused to feel badly for using Mike. The boy had asked for it, after all. He'd teased Harvey, had practically begged, and in the end, he'd screamed....

"Harvey."

With some surprise, Harvey realized he'd reached the lobby, the doors had opened, and he was staring blankly into the face of Louis Litt. Not bothering to acknowledge the other man, he strode past him. Louis, never one to take a hint, scurried along in his wake.

"Harvey, we need to talk."

"Busy," he bit out.

"It's about your new apprentice."

Rolling his eyes in aggravation, Harvey kept walking.

"And your indenture."

Harvey slowed and then halted, turning to face Louis. "His name is Mike."

"I know that. And _her_ name is Katrina. Katrina _Orsini._ But, whatever. She's been asking questions about him."

"Has she?" He eyed Louis curiously, trying to decide whether or not to press him for details or simply walk away.

Before he could make up his mind, Louis stepped closer and spoke in a low voice, eyes darting around them as if scanning for possible eavesdroppers. "He was supposed to be my case. Mike Ross was. Some idiot clerk mixed up the files, and I was thinking about sending said clerk a thank you muffin basket, because I couldn't figure out why anybody would give two shits about some little test cheater, but now I hear he possesses some amazing skill -- "

"Louis."

"Look, Harvey, I don't have time to argue with you. Just know that I'm getting all kinds of pressure from people who can make or break my career, and they are throwing all kinds of ugly threats around, so what you need to do to rectify this situation and make amends is to sign him over to me. Like, right away."

"What?" Harvey shook his head as if to clear away an annoying insect. "Louis, I have no idea what you're talking about, but we are in agreement on one thing. You don't have time, and I don’t have time either."

"Harvey -- "

"No. I'm busy. I've got problems of my own, so you're going to have to figure yours out all by yourself." He broke away before Louis could say anything else, and headed outside in search of a decent cup of coffee.

 

When Harvey returned to his office, having succeeded in clearing his head, he and Mike made it through lunch without exchanging more than a couple of words. After lunch -- sandwiches provided by a brooding Donna -- Mike apparently decided to switch tactics in whatever weird little game of "drive Harvey nuts," he was playing. He fidgeted, let out noisy, gusty sighs, and changed position constantly so that his chain jingled almost nonstop. Harvey tried his best to ignore him, but finally threw his pen down and snapped, "What?"

Mike's look was all innocence. "Sorry. I guess I'm just not used to sitting still all day."

"I'm afraid you're going to have to get used to it."

A dramatic sigh and more fidgeting from Mike.

"Sit. Still."

Mike glanced in Donna's direction and then whispered, "My ass is sore."

"Whose fault is that?"

Mike's look made it clear whose fault he believed it to be. Harvey could have argued otherwise, but chose to let it go. Blessed silence fell, but only lasted all of five minutes.

"Harvey?"

"Damn it, Mike."

"Hey, I told you I was bored. I was bored yesterday, and the day before that. I'm all caught up on my coursework, and you haven't given me any new legal puzzles to ponder. I've hacked into every corner of the firm intranet, set up five fictional profiles on FaceForum -- and gained three hundred and eighty-four new friends, by the way. If I don't get something to do soon, I swear I'll start posting incendiary comments on all the government news sites, which will be traced straight back here, and earn us a visit from the imperial thought police." He paused, probably to catch his breath, and gave Harvey a challenging glare.

"Is this really how you want to play this?" asked Harvey, struggling to hold onto his temper.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about your infantile behavior. I'm not certain whether you're acting out because of what happened last night, or if extreme immaturity is your default setting. Whatever the case, I recommend you stop your nonsense, or you won't be pleased with the consequences. Am I completely clear?" He stared Mike down. The boy dropped his gaze, seeming to accept defeat.

So when, less than a minute later, Harvey heard Mike's snide whisper -- _"you won't be pleased with the consequences"_ \-- he slammed his hand down on the desk and shot to his feet.

"I absolutely do not understand you, Mike," he said, stalking out from behind his desk. "Your life is a fucking banquet compared to ninety-nine percent of the other indentures out there. If you harbor some ill will toward me because I chose to indulge you last night, you need to let that go right now. I was going to let your obnoxious behavior this afternoon slide, but I'm way too busy to put up with any more of your shit. Donna!"

He noted with satisfaction that Mike flinched at his raised voice. Donna appeared in the doorway, looking almost as shocked as Mike. He couldn't remember ever yelling at her before, and would undoubtedly have to apologize later with lavish gifts, but right now, he was too incensed to care. "Call Ray and have him take Mike home. I'm done with him today."

Instead of immediately complying, Donna hesitated, an odd look on her face. "Do you think that's such a good idea? You know...considering everything."

"He's better off at home than staying in a room with me right now."

"Harvey...."

"Damn it, Donna. For once, just do as I say, without any of your 'Harvey whisperer' bullshit."

She still appeared hesitant, but after several beats, she entered the room, accepted Mike's key from Harvey, unlocked his chain and left with him, giving Harvey a troubled look over her shoulder.

 

******

 

Mike practically overflowed with gleeful triumph. Not only had his plan worked, it had worked better than he could have hoped for. He had intended only to annoy Harvey enough that he would leave Mike on his own for the evening. Now, though, he had an entire afternoon to search out Trevor. He just needed to accomplish it without being caught and brought in for punishment. He hadn’t forgotten Rachel’s warning.

Luckily for Mike, Harvey was not a stickler for the rules, and didn't carry the GPS locator with him which was keyed to the chip in Mike's arm. With a bit of luck, that lapse would give Mike the time he needed to get to Brooklyn and back without raising suspicion.

When they arrived at Harvey's building, Ray walked him inside and rode the elevator up with him. Mike hadn't been trusted with a key to Harvey's place, but evidently Ray had been deemed worthy.

"Be good, kid," were Ray's parting words.

Mike smiled and shut the door in his face.

He looked down at his uniform, wrinkling his nose with distaste. It might help him to move faster if he changed into some of Harvey's casual clothes, but the penalties if he was caught out of uniform would be immediate and severe. Besides, it wasn't unusual to see indentures walking about on their own, going about their holder's business, especially in parts of Brooklyn, where there were entire buildings housing nothing but government and private industry indentures.

Mike thought about what he might need when he found Trevor. He considered Harvey's expensive kitchen knives, but rejected that idea. His uniform did not provide any place to hide something like that. And again, if he was caught carrying a weapon, he would be picked up. No, he would have to improvise when the time came to take his revenge.

After Ray dropped him off, Mike waited ten minutes before he left the apartment, wedging a folded square of paper in the lock so he could slip back in later, and took the elevator down to the parking level. A heavy door let him out into the alley behind the building, and from there it was only a short walk to the nearest subway station.

His plan hit the first snag when he arrived at the subway with no money in his pockets. He paced nearby, pretending he was waiting for someone. At the same time, he covertly observed the cameras mounted above him. He waited for a decent sized group of people to approach all at once, drifted into the middle of the crowd, and vaulted over the turnstile, ignoring the only offended glare directed his way by a woman in her thirties who, thankfully, turned in the opposite direction he needed to go.

It was a calculated risk. If the transit authority happened to spot-check those particular vid-feeds, they might come after him. His tattoo and criminal ID number could identify him, but if the random check even happened -- which was only ten percent likely -- he was counting on the crowd to obscure a good view of him. Unless he could scrounge up some money in Brooklyn, he'd have to repeat the process on the way back, which would double the chances of being found out. He tried to put that small worry out of his mind for now.

He didn't have long to wait for his train. At mid-afternoon on a Friday, the car was perhaps two-thirds full. He squeezed into a corner seat and hunched down, making himself as small as possible. He began to feel conspicuous as he realized that every other eye in the car seemed to be trained on him. Surely they'd all seen indentures before. They were numerous and visible enough, especially in Brooklyn. Something about the avid curiosity in their gazes had his nerves jumping, and anxiety slithering through his veins.   He shrugged it off, putting it down to guilt and fear of what could happen if he was caught traveling alone, without his holder's permission.

He felt great relief, though, when the train reached his stop and he could exit. On the platform, more people turned to stare at him. He by-passed the escalators in favor of the stairs, and climbed back out into the soft grey light of an overcast afternoon.

The mailing address listed for Trevor Evans by the imperial postal service was in the Da Vinci Heights neighborhood, not one with which Mike was overly familiar. He did know that it was fairly heavily populated with indentures and low wage workers. He consulted his mental map and headed east, up a narrow street filled with potholes. The gentrification which had begun in parts of Brooklyn decades earlier had not yet reached this area. Aging palazzo style brick buildings with only a hint of Italianate flourishes lined both sides of the street, most looking unsafe, and barely a mild earthquake away from crumbling into dust.

Mike swiveled his head back and forth, searching for the right address, and slowly becoming aware that except for him, the streets and sidewalks were bare of people. He saw lights inside the buildings, occasionally spotted a curtain being twitched back into place, as if someone lurked at the window, watching him pass by.

He located the correct building and climbed steep steps to the front door. A car cruised slowly up the street. One window was cracked open, and he could hear the static-filled blare of talk radio drift out. Mike pushed the buzzer for apartment seven, waited a few seconds, and then pushed all of the buttons, one after the other. The car stopped right in front of the building. The passenger side window slid lower. Mike turned resolutely away.

"Hey. Hey, you. Boy."

Mike grimaced and punched at the buttons again before slowly turning back to face the car. "Yes?" He could just make out the shadowy figure of what appeared to be an older man, leaning across the cracked leather seat to make himself heard

"You shouldn't be out here right now. Better get inside."

Mike forced a smile to his face. "That's the plan." Just then, one of the tenants hit a button to release the front door and Mike pushed gratefully inside and slammed the door behind himself. Through the glass panes of the closed door, he watched until the car and it's overly nosy driver finally accelerated up the hill and disappeared.

"Weirdo," he muttered and moved down a dark hallway that smelled like dust and garlic and spoiled milk, checking the door numbers. He found number seven halfway down the building. For long moments, he stood in front of the door, taking slow even breaths, trying to compose himself so that he felt able to meet face to face with the man who had betrayed him, had betrayed Grammy, had all but murdered her with his own hands.

Behind him, he heard a key scrabbling in the front door, and quickly raised his hand and knocked, the sound seeming to echo through the whole building. He heard hesitant footsteps inside, then the door opened a sliver, held back by a security chain. He heard a small gasp, and had just enough time to wonder what he would do if Trevor wouldn't let him in, when the door closed and seconds later swung wide open, revealing a wide-eyed, lank-haired, emaciated blonde in a shabby indenture uniform and unraveling cardigan, who he didn't recognize at first.

Then the woman squealed and her arms shot out to grab Mike in a spine-jarring hug. "Mike! Ohmygods I can't believe it's you." She stepped back, and now, with an unrestrained smile lighting up her thin face, Mike did recognize her.

"Jenny?"

All of his resolve and shadowy plans of violent vengeance dissolved at the prospect of having to rip Trevor apart in front of this sweet, gentle creature.

"How did you know? Did you find him?" she asked, pulling him inside and closing the door before securing it with the chain and two deadbolts. She seemed to notice his uniform, and her face screwed up in confusion. "Are you in disguise?"

"What? No. Find who?"

"Oh, Zeus." She shivered and moved to sit at a rickety table with a stained hotplate taking up most of its tiny surface. Mike watched her pick at a scab on the back of one hand, noting that fine tremors shook her whole body. "Trevor. He's been missing for...I don’t know...days. Over a week, maybe. I'm out of cash. They won't let me work like this." She scratched harder at her hand, plunged her hand inside the sleeve of her cardigan to scratch furiously, eyes filling with tears. "Did you bring me anything? I'm really hurting...." She sniffled loudly and rubbed her arm under her nose.

As he studied her, recognizing all the signs, his heart sank, disgust and pity mingling inside of him. "Jenny...how in all the hells....?"

She chewed on a knuckle, unable to meet his eyes. "I was dealing for Trevor."

"Fuck."

"No. No, it wasn't his fault. I needed the money to make rent, and I begged him to cut me in. Fucking narcs grabbed me last year." She looked up at Mike, blue eyes huge and shadowed with purplish crescents so dark they looked like bruises. "One of the municipal brothels bought my contract."

" _Shit_."

"It wasn't so bad at first, but gods, every day, day after day with no breaks....One of the other girls gave me something that made it bearable. After that, it didn't even cost me anything because Trevor always had a little extra." Her face crumpled and more tears started to fall. "And now he's gone, and I don't know where he went. I think I'm losing my fucking mind."

Fresh rage directed at Trevor filled Mike. "I can't believe I ever called him my friend."

"He is your friend," Jenny said, voice small. "He talks about you all the time."

"Jenny, you can't have forgiven him for what he's done to you."

"It's not his fault."

Mike stared down at her, wondering how much she knew about the extent of Trevor's transgressions. "Do you have some idea where he might be? Or why he disappeared on you?"

She shook her head in denial, but something sly had entered her expression, something so un-Jenny-like that it made him a little ill to witness it.

"Come on, Jenny," he wheedled. "I came back to New York just to see him. If you tell me, I promise he'll never know it was you."

"Get me some drugs and I will."

He struggled to remain calm. "I can't do that. I mean, look at me, Jenny. I'm an indenture, just like you."

"Yeah? What did you do?"

He quirked his mouth up in a smile that he hoped looked charming. "That fucking test I cheated on? Yep. Finally came back around to bite me in the ass."

Jenny made a wheezing sound that it took him a moment to recognize as laughter. "Oh shit. Mike Ross, you're such a badass." Her laughter died off, leaving her looking drained and without hope.   "Seriously, though. I need a fix." Tears leaked slowly from her eyes.

She occupied the only chair that he could see, so he crouched in front of her and took her hands in his. They felt cold and as frail as bird bones. "Tell me what you know, and I will do everything I can to get you what you need." Which meant seeing if he could find some government rehab program that took indentures, but she didn't have to know that.

Faint hope lit her eyes. "You will? Well...there was one thing that Trevor was always going on about. I thought it was just a fantasy of his, more of his big talk, but now he's gone and maybe he really did do it."

"Do what?"

"There's some rich freak, see. He collects interesting people. Buys up their contracts, straight out of the courts or off their contract holders."

"Interesting? What does that mean?"

She shivered. "All kinds. They could be blind, or play the piano real well, or I don't know...like you with your memory thing. Anyway, he was looking for, like, a scout."

“A talent scout?”

“Yeah. I think that’s what he called it.”

"And you think Trevor took the job?"

She nodded, mouth pressed together. "I told him he shouldn't, that nothing good could come of it. You know Trevor, though. All he saw was the dollar signs. He can be so stubborn. "

"Sure, sure. Can you tell me the name of this...collector?"

She shook her head, looking as if she was on the verge of breaking into tears again. "I'm sorry. He never said."

Mike wanted to yell out his frustration. The information Jenny had given him was next to useless, except to confirm what a piece of shit Trevor was. He kept his disappointment to himself, and smiled at Jenny. "Thank you. I'm sure that what you've told me will be helpful."

She nodded and nodded, eyes never leaving his face. "You'll come back tonight, right? I can't last another day without some relief."

"Sure, Jenny," he lied. "I'll come back just as soon as I can."

"That's good."

"Is there someone who can stay with you for a while?"

"Yeah. I have friends in the building. And our roommate should be home soon. The company puts us all up here." Sudden worry filled her face. "Do you think they'll let me stay? They won't let me work like this."

"I know. I'm sure everything will work out." He stood up, overwhelmed by a sense of futility. Had Trevor known he was back? Is that why he'd bolted? "It was good to see you Jenny." He could only hope he sounded sincere.

"I'll be waiting, Mike. I'll buzz you in. I'm going to stay up all night so I don't miss you. I know you won't let me down." She continued on like that, mumbling the words more to herself than to him, and he let himself out, thinking that maybe Rachel the med-tech could help her somehow. He would look into that tomorrow.

It had grown dark while he'd been inside with Jenny, and now thick shadows filled the spaces between the few streetlights that were still in working order. He walked quickly down the deserted sidewalk, his mind already working on the task of getting himself back to Manhattan before Harvey noticed his absence.

He should have been paying more attention to his surroundings, but the meeting with Jenny and disappointment over Trevor had shaken him badly. So, when the black town car with government plates pulled up alongside him, he didn't register its presence right away. When three men in the uniforms of private condottieri exited the car and surrounded him, he was too shocked to do anything but freeze.

And when a hypo-gun tapped his neck and went _thwick_ with a cold sting, he had only a handful of seconds to understand that he'd been a stupid, reckless fool, before darkness slammed down and took the world away.

 

******

 

With Mike out of his office, Harvey should have been able cruise through the work on his desk. It was something of a shock to realize that he'd grown accustomed to having the boy there, and without him, his concentration was almost as poor as it had been while dealing with a fidgety, annoying Mike. He kept checking his watch, and could scarcely believe how slow time seemed to be moving.

The weird vibes permeating the office didn't help. Clumps of paralegals and secretaries and file clerks drifted down the halls, speaking in hushed, animated whispers. He caught more than one pointed gaze directed at Mike's empty corner, but chalked it up to general curiosity. Mike was the first indenture they'd had in their midst on a regular basis, so some rubbernecking was to be expected.

By four thirty, he was too keyed up to work, and decided that a quick bite to eat was in order before settling back in for a few more hours. Donna was not at her desk. He walked down the hall toward the elevators, which was when he noticed that every office he passed, and every desk and work station, was empty. Had a firm meeting been called that no one had bothered to mention to him?

The minor mystery was solved when he passed the large conference room next to the elevator bay. The glass doors stood open, and a wall-mounted television was turned to the government affairs channel. The room was packed. Advocates stood shoulder to shoulder with file clerks, apprentices, secretaries and paralegals. He spotted Donna close to the front of the crowd. She spared him only a brief, weighted glance before focusing back on the television.

As Harvey edged his way into the room, he realized that what had them all so glued to the set was a live feed from the imperial legislative chambers, where a vote was in progress. According to a tally at the bottom of the screen, at the moment, the ayes outnumbered the nays by two to one.

"Unbelievable," someone muttered near his elbow.

"They've all lost their damn minds," came another opinion.

Donna lifted the remote control and cranked up the volume.

_"And that clinches it,"_ declared the announcer's voice. _"The Revised Code of Slavery and Indenture Rights has passed with a two-thirds majority. As we've been reporting all afternoon, the proconsul has vowed he will sign the bill if passed, and even the emperor will make an appearance to apply his seal to the document. And in an unusual and unprecedented move, the bill will become the law of the empire in the instant it is signed and sealed. As we watch the few remaining senators cast their votes, let's take some viewer calls to hear what you think about this stunning development."_

Scottie had warned him, but still cold shock washed through Harvey. That feeling of disbelief appeared to be shared by the entire room.

Donna lifted the remote once more, and changed to a news channel, where _Breaking News_ flashed at the bottom of the screen.

_"In the province of New York tonight, things are quiet as the large indenture population seems to be hunkering down, remaining indoors and waiting to see what changes this new law will bring to their lives. We have a live feed from Novus Angelus, where trouble seems imminent at a massive protest rally being attended by indentures and their supporters."_

A camera panned over a crowd of people, most in uniform, their faces displaying anger and shock. The camera paused and zoomed in on a man in his twenties holding a sign that read, _"Not What We Signed On For."_

The voiceover continued. _"We now have reports coming in from Chicago and Miami and Kansas City of sporadic violence breaking out. Citizens are advised to stay in their homes."_ A pretty blonde woman appeared onscreen, replacing the crowd scene. _"We're going live to the imperial residence, where we understand both the proconsul and the emperor will be appearing shortly...."_

Harvey had seen enough. He needed to get home to Mike. He signaled to Donna and left the room, pulling his phone out as he made for the elevators. Ray answered on the first ring. "You close?"

"Yeah. It's a little crazy out here. People are losing their shit. They've closed some of the roads."

"Can you get me home?"

"Sure thing. I'll find a way."

"Good, but first we're taking Donna home. And after you're done with us, I want you to head straight home and stay with your family until you hear from me."

A short silence on the other end of the line. "You think things will get that bad?"

"Nearly a fifth of the population just had every right stripped from them and were turned into slaves for life. What do you think?"

When Ray answered, his voice was grim and subdued. "I'll be there in five."

Harvey hung up and called Mike on the landline in his apartment. After three rings, it went to voicemail. He tried again, with the same result. When he looked up again, Donna had appeared, carrying her coat and purse.

"Mike?" she asked.

"He's not answering. Probably still sulking." He said it as if he believed it, and tried to convince himself that it was true, but as they rode the packed elevator down to the lobby, anxiety wound through him, and he knew it wouldn't leave him until he saw for himself that Mike was safe at home.


	16. Chapter 16

“There. See? Nothing,” Harvey said, frustration mounting. “All I get is an error message, it resets, and then the same thing.” He jiggled the GPS locator and stared across the kitchen counter at Donna.

She had ended up going home with him, after over an hour trapped in traffic. The roads heading to Donna’s neighborhood had been clogged, and tempers were running high, with road rage breaking out all around them, so Harvey told Ray to turn around. His building was much closer to the office, but it still took another hour to reach it.

When they entered and didn't find Mike stretched out on the couch watching movies or playing games, Harvey assumed at first that Mike must have heard the news about the vote, and had retreated to his bedroom. A knock on the closed door and a look inside revealed that the apartment was empty. Harvey's first reaction was anger. It fell to Donna to help him think rationally.

"If he knew about the vote," she said, "he would have no reason to go outside. I would certainly want to stay holed up and out of sight if I was in his place. So either he didn't know, or he knew and had such a pressing reason to go out that he didn't care."

Harvey nodded distractedly, not sure whether to be furious or worried about Mike. "We have to find him. Until things settle down, it's not going to be safe out there for him. There's got to be some kind of up back up to this piece of junk." He tossed the locator down and watched it skid across the countertop.

Donna gave him a sympathetic look. "Normally, you could go get a replacement from any electronics store and have the Indenture Maintenance Bureau sync it up online, but I don't think this is a good time to be advertising a runaway...indenture."

Harvey gave a humorless laugh. "Don't you mean runaway slave? Because that's what he is now."

They sat in silence, letting that sink in.

Harvey picked up the locator and turned it over in his hands. "What else do you know about these things?"

She shrugged. "Not much."

"Maybe it keeps some kind of history in it."

Donna shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Here. Let me see it." She reached over and took it from him, peering at it closely and then tugging it in several different directions. He saw the moment of realization on her face, but was still surprised and impressed when she twisted one end like a Rubik’s cube to reveal a flat metal plug. "Does this look like it would fit into a USB port?"

Harvey took it back from her, nodding slowly. "Donna, you do have your moments." He stood up and strode down the hall, hearing her follow right behind him. His tablet was on the top of his dresser where he'd left it. He swiped his finger over screen, waited for it to wake up, tapped in his password, and inserted the locator into its side.

Nothing happened.

“Open up your File Explorer,” Donna suggested. She leaned in, trying to follow her own suggestion. Harvey slapped her hand away.

“Wait,” he said. “Something’s initializing.” He backed up a few steps to sit on the bed. Donna sat beside him. A few words flashed briefly in the middle of the screen, too quickly for them to read, and then were replaced with a white square with an hourglass in the middle. “Gods, how old is this program?”

“It looks like something I was using in high school,” Donna sniffed.

"They had computers when you were in high school?"

"Shut up." She ignored Harvey’s quiet snort of laughter. “I’m sure the government doesn’t budget much for upgrades. It may look clunky, but hopefully it’s of some use.”

It took several more minutes for the program to load, and when it had, Harvey found himself frowning over the indecipherable rows of numbers and letters. “Not very user friendly.” He handed the tablet to Donna. “Any ideas?”

“Hm. See this blinky part here? It wants a command, I’m guessing.”

Harvey took it back from her. _FIND MIKE NOW,_ he tapped out.

_> INCORRECT SYNTAX._

“Really, Harvey? Find Mike? Why don’t you just ask it to suck your dick?”

“You wanna try?”

She huffed out a breath. “Think, Harvey. You know hundreds – thousands – of people. There must be at least one who’s had experience with indentures.” Under her breath, he heard her mutter, “And who’s not a complete moron.”

“Maybe we could give what’s his name a call.”

“What’s his name?”

“You know.” He snapped his fingers a few times. “Bartleby or Beelzebub. Something like that. Skinny, constipated looking guy?”

“Honestly, Harvey. It’s _Benjamin._ Assuming you mean our head of IT.”

“Yeah. That’s the one. I don’t suppose you have his number handy?”

“I do. But I doubt that Ancient Computer Languages was part of his curriculum at Columbiana.”

“Is that even a thing?”

Donna turned an incredulous glare on Harvey. “No, it’s not. That was sarcasm. Now would you focus? Do you even want to find Mike?”

He sobered quickly. “Yes. I’m sorry. Do you have any suggestions as to how to proceed?”

He watched her mull it over, while he tried to do the same. He was glad Donna was with him because his normally razor sharp mind seemed to have dulled to soggy noodle flaccidity.

After a couple of minutes, Donna shrugged. “Maybe try typing in his CIN?”

Harvey nodded slowly. That made sense. Of course, he didn’t have Mike’s criminal identification number committed to memory, so first he had to get up and retrieve Mike’s paperwork from the where he had tossed it up on the top of his closet. Once he’d found it, he returned to sit on the bed and began typing in the number.

Making a noise that could only be termed pained, Donna snatched tablet and paperwork from Harvey and finished entering the long number.

“I could have done it,” Harvey muttered.

“Yeah, if we wanted to be here for another hour or two…oh, okay. That did something.”

When she tapped enter, the screen had gone blank again, but only for a second. The indecipherable numbers and letters were replaced with a more user-friendly home page that showed an image of Mike which must have been taken just after his arrest. His face was bruised, his eyes squinting glassily, his expression both frightened and resigned. Harvey winced. He glanced sideways at Donna and saw that she was doing the same.

Tabs across the top of the page had such intriguing labels as _Diet, Punishment Log, Sleep Chart, Skills, Preferences, Medical History._ Apparently, the more organized or scientifically minded had a place to keep track of their indenture. He wondered why he hadn’t known about this. Maybe he should have read the informational handbook he’d received when he'd signed the contract.

The final tab was labeled, _Locate_. Before Harvey could open his mouth to suggest it, Donna tapped on the tab, and they both leaned closer, trying to make sense of the information in front of them.

“See that,” said Donna, pointing at the top right corner where a message flashed in red block letters: _OFFLINE – PLEASE REPORT._

"Great. Now we know exactly what we knew five minutes ago."

"What about all this other stuff? These look like timestamps. And these other numbers....Maybe those represent geographical points?"

"Any idea how to read them? Yeah, me neither."

"Harvey, you must have gotten some instructions with this thing."

He was reluctant to admit just how little time he had devoted to worrying about the care and feeding of his indenture. He was spared from this when he got a better idea. "Hang on a second," he said, and hurried out to the living room for his cell phone. When he got back, he paced restlessly in front of Donna and dialed a number. It took three tries, as the system seemed to be at capacity, but finally he got through.

"Harvey? Are you calling to say I told you so?"

"No. But, okay, yes. You were right. Look, Scottie, I've got a problem. Is your phone secure?"

"What do you think?" When he didn't answer, she said, "Of course it is. What's wrong?"

"Mike's missing."

Suddenly, she was all business. "You checked his locator?"

"He's offline."

"Not surprising. What about his history?"

"That's why I'm calling. We stuck the thing in the place but nothing makes sense."

"The thing in the -- you know what? Never mind. Type in Mike's CIN."

"Did that."

"Good. Now go to the _Locate_ tab."

"Did that too."

"And did you click on the map icon?"

"The what now?"

" _Harvey_. Zeus, you're hopeless. Did you even read the instruction booklet?"

He was dimly aware of her voice in his ear, a thin buzz berating him for his thick-headedness. Since he had both himself and Donna to accomplish the same thing, he ignored her and sat back down on the bed, leaning against Donna to view the screen.

And there it was, plain as day: a tiny representation of a street map. "That," he murmured to Donna, and she tapped it once. Like a magical conjuration, the screen blossomed out to show a detailed street map with a thick green line running through it, complete with directional arrows, showing the path Mike had taken earlier.

"Scottie," he said, interrupting her rant, "we got it. Thank you."

"Sure." A brief silence. "My...group's hands are full right now, with indentures -- _slaves_ \-- desperate to get out of New York. But if you need any help with Mike, I'll do whatever I can."

"Thank you," he repeated, and ended the call.

"Why would he go to Brooklyn?" Donna asked.

Harvey knew the answer to that. Vanessa had texted Harvey an address yesterday, which he'd decided not to pass along to Mike just yet, since his inquiries concerning Edith Ross's death were still in progress. Still, if she'd gotten the address so easily....

"Give me that." He took the tablet back from Donna, and opened up the saved text on his phone. According to the map of Mike's movements, he'd visited Trevor's last known address for at least ten minutes. The next timestamp of 5:06 pm showed him outside the building, moving in the direction of the subway station.

And after that -- nothing. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth.

 

******

 

At first, as he struggled out of the clinging grey fog, Mike thought he was back in his jail cell. The ache in his head felt similar, and an ankle chain kept him secured to a bed.

Gradually, he began to notice the differences. For one, the bed was softer, and smelled better, like lavender overlaid with faint wisps of lemon. He cracked open one eye to find subdued lighting in the room. There was no snoring or muttering or cursing of other prisoners, so he gathered his courage, eased himself into a seated position, and opened both eyes.

As he moved, he noted a muffled pain in his arm. Examining himself, he saw a clean bandage just below his tattoo, right over where his CIN and chip were located. Gingerly, he peeled the bandage away to find a neatly stitched incision. The tattooed number remained, although it was slightly distorted by the surgery that had been performed.

He recognized the significance of the incision, and while not so long ago, he would have been thrilled to have his locator chip gone, at that moment the realization filled him with deep unease. He pressed the bandage back in place and turned his attention to his surroundings.

The room was small -- more of a cell, actually, than a room -- and contained only the narrow bed to which he was chained, and a simple table next to the bed made of white plastic. In fact, everything in the room was a pure, pristine white that hurt his sensitive eyes and made his head throb dully The only thing saving him from searing pain was the subdued nature of the lighting which he had noted earlier.

The only relief from the white theme was the wall to his left. The room -- cell -- was oblong, and this wall, one of the longer ones, appeared to be made of glass. He frowned and looked around at all four walls. He couldn't see any doors.

Moving slowly, out of respect for the lingering pain in his head, he slid to the edge of the bed and stood up. His chain, which was bright and finely wrought, was also long enough for him to reach all areas of the cell. With his first step, he staggered a little, but regained his balance and walked one more step to the glass wall. Cautiously, he reached out with one finger and touched --

An alarm blared, accompanied by a deafening voice which sounded suspiciously mechanical, ordering, "Step away from the window."

He stepped away, pulse racing, and froze.

Outside the window, he could see a large square space, perhaps the size of a school gymnasium, which was in darkness. Surrounding that, all the way around the square, at least as far as he could see, were cells like the one he stood inside, each one identical, with a soft, recessed light fixture highlighting the bed, rather in the manner of lights used to showcase pieces of art. And in each cell he could see another prisoner, men and women, all of them naked like he was, some reclining on their bed, some standing at the glass, staring in his direction, their attention likely drawn by the alarm he had activated.

The weirdness -- the _wrongness_ \-- of the whole set up had him stumbling back to his bed. He sat with a suddenness that set off the throbbing in his head. He felt as if he might be hyperventilating, and forced himself to slow his breathing down.

 _Think,_ he ordered himself. _Engage your brain_.

He'd been kidnapped, obviously. His chip had been removed. That, coupled with the well-maintained accommodations, pointed toward a private party rather than the government. He shut his eyes and tried to remember the moments before he was drugged. The men who grabbed him had worn the uniforms of one of the private security forces. But....

His eyes opened and his mouth fell open in shock. He could clearly see the license plates of the car that had pulled alongside him. They'd been government plates. What did that mean? Private security, and a government car. He looked out the glass wall again. He couldn't make out the faces of the prisoners across from him, but even from this distance their body language spoke clearly of resignation to their fate.

Mike tried to count the cells. From his angle, he couldn't see all of them, but he guessed there were at least two dozen, perhaps more. Were they all occupied? Doors seemed nonexistent, but the cells had to open somehow. Whoever had collected them all here would need to provide food. And with no bathroom facilities in the cells, were they let out periodically to take care of their needs?

He was running this all through his mind, all of his questions and worries, when the spotlight over his bed brightened, illuminating his cell and leaving him feeling utterly exposed. He rose slowly to his feet, not sure what was happening, but wanting to be ready for whatever it was.

Lights came on outside the cell, revealing a walkway between the cells and the darkened area in the middle of the huge room. He heard footsteps, what sounded like several sets of them. They came closer, until he saw a group of three men. Two of them wore the condottiere’s uniform he remembered from his abduction.

The third man was older, dressed with casual elegance in grey wool slacks and a pale blue v-neck sweater that was probably cashmere. His swept back hair was the platinum grey that blonds often aged into. He stood a few inches shorter than Mike, but held himself with arrogance probably meant to provide the optical illusion of a taller man. He was in good shape for his age, if a little soft around the middle.

Mike might have recognized him based on the close family resemblance with his daughter, but of course it was a famous, well-known face, one that appeared on the news feeds on a nightly basis: Deputy Proconsul Orsini.

"Welcome, slave," said Orsini, his distinctive oily voice coming into Mike's cell via intercom, and sounding all around him. "Welcome to your new home. I do hope you're comfortable. You won't always be, but I like to give my new pets a little time to settle in, learn the routine, get used to the rules. And speaking of rules, you've already violated one of them. In future, you are never, ever to touch the glass."

"I didn't -- " Mike began, but was cut off.

"Yes, you didn't know. You also didn't know that you are never, ever to speak, unless I ask you to. I'm not going to punish you for those violations. Not explicitly. But as part of your orientation today, my men will be demonstrating what future violations will bring you." He nodded at one of the security guards, who lifted an electronic tablet and tapped on it a few times.

The floor underneath Mike's bare feet buzzed softly for half a second, and then a zap of electricity shot up the soles of his feet and into his body, surprising him into a squeak of pain. "What the fuck?"

"Ah ah ah. No speaking. You know that was a violation, slave. Give him level two," Orsini instructed his guard.

Mike nearly bit his tongue in two when the next shock tore through him, and just barely managed not to say anything out loud, although violent curses filled his mind.

"See?" said Orsini, with a pleased smile. "You're learning already. I know you're curious, so I'll tell you that the floors and walls are all wired, and the intensity goes up to level ten. Now, lest you mistakenly believe you have any escape from your punishments, I want you to lie down on the bed."

Mike eyed the bed with suspicion, but it didn't seem he had any other choice, unless he wanted another jolt from the bug zapper. He lay down and saw Orsini nod to the guard. That was his only warning as an even stronger jolt surged through him. He screamed. His back arched as all of his muscles seemed to seize up at once.

After long seconds that were an eternity of agony, the current ceased and Mike sagged down into the bed, humiliated to realize that he'd lost control of his bladder. This seemed to amuse Orsini.

"That was level three. Wet yourself, didn't you? That happens a lot. Luckily your orientation includes a trip to the facilities. While we're in there, housekeeping will provide you with fresh bedding." He chuckled. "Don't expect such pampering after today. Normally we would leave you in your own filth for a day to give you time to truly repent. Stand up."

Mike's mind was still scrambled from the shocks he'd received. He felt like there must be wisps of smoke rising from head. He got to his feet and somehow managed to stay upright.

One mystery was solved when the glass wall slid to one side, disappearing into the frame of the cell. The guard who had applied the shocks entered the cell, and Mike flinched involuntarily. He only unlocked Mike's leg chain, though, and clipped a leash to his collar, which Mike realized was not the one he had left Harvey's apartment wearing. The new collar was made of metal, but was light and felt smooth and fluid against his skin.

They led him down the walkway and into a short hallway that led to "the facilities." These consisted of a row of stainless steel urinals and toilets with no privacy, another row of stainless steel sinks, and an ominous looking wall of detachable showerheads with manacles at shoulder and ankle height, a long, horizontal metal rail at hip level, numerous nozzles probably meant for unspeakable things, and buckets holding scrub brushes and squeeze bottles, presumably containing soap or shampoo.

Orsini pointed to the toilets. "If you have to relieve yourself, you'd better go ahead. You get two chances daily, so get used to the schedule."

Mike started to speak, remembering himself just in time, and shook his head no.

"Very well. I like to keep my pets clean and comfortable. Ha. That is, in between the times they are uncomfortable. You'll be washed every other day, unless your usage requires something more frequent."

His attention caught by the words "usage" and "frequent," Mike forgot to move his feet, and his handler pulled impatiently on his leash, making him choke and stumble a little. He guessed what was coming next, but that didn't make it any easier to handle. The guards chained him to the wall, at wrists and ankles, and then bent him over the metal rail. They stepped back and two attendants in white uniforms entered the room.

Without speaking a word, the attendants turned the detachable showerheads on Mike. He felt cold gel squeezed over his back, followed by a thorough scrubbing from the brushes, up and down his back and front, into his hair, between his legs and up and down each leg.

He prayed that this would be the extent of his cleaning, but the gods had never answered his prayers before. Why should they start now?

"My pets should be clean everywhere," Orsini said, in the tone of a professor lecturing his students. "Sometimes there's a bit of embarrassment with this next part, but I really wouldn't waste my energy on such nonsense if I were you. Relax, slave. You'll find this unpleasant."

The nozzle was cold and hard as it was pushed into his rectum, and a gush of water filled his guts to what felt like bursting. Mike squeezed his eyes shut and reached for a memory, anything to distract him from what was happening to him. Predictably, the image that filled his mind was the sight of Harvey seated at his desk, head bent as he studied some legal document or another.

_"Hold it in slave. Don't release until I say so or you'll be punished." Mike's guts cramped with pain._

Harvey glanced up and smiled at him, amused and exasperated at the same time. "You should have left Katrina alone, like I told you to. Now look at what you've done."

_"Ah. Look there, gentlemen. We have a crier. I knew this one would be an excellent addition to the collection. Gods, I love it when they cry, don't you?"_


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a few new tags. This chapter contains some unpleasantness.

All the news channels -- all of the channels, in fact -- were showing nonstop images from around the empire of protests and riots, and violent pushback by government centurions and private condottiere squads dressed in riot gear. Tanks had been deployed, combat lions brought in, tear gas launched, and rubber bullets used liberally. All of which served only to fuel the anger of the protesters.

Several obscure rebel groups had sent messages to the media, and while normally the state-controlled news wouldn't give them so much as a second of airtime, even the on-air personalities were apparently shocked enough by the new law to blatantly violate station policy. All of the messages were essentially the same, threatening more violence until the law was repealed.

So far, the notable exception to the backlash was the New York area. Camera drones buzzed through the streets of Brooklyn and Queens, recording the eerie calm, showing empty streets and sidewalks in neighborhoods normally crowded and vibrant twenty-four hours a day.

Donna was all in favor of driving to Brooklyn that night to search for Mike, surprising Harvey with her militant attitude.

"I didn't realize you two had grown so close," he said.

She gave him a sideways look. "He's a nice kid. But it’s more than that. Two of my best friends growing up became indentures. One only had two months left on his contract. I can't do anything for him, not directly anyway, but if I can do something to keep Mike safe -- "

She broke off, not finishing the thought, since they both knew full well that the odds of Mike being safe were low, and getting worse with every additional hour he was missing. And even though Harvey felt the press of time, of precious minutes ticking away, he knew that charging off in the middle of the night, without a clue where to begin looking, would do them no good.

"I know," he sighed, pulling Donna into a one-armed hug. "But in all likelihood he's long gone from his last logged location. I've got people out looking for him, and for this Trevor character. As soon as we hear something, I promise I'll do everything in my power to get him back." He was surprised to hear himself speak the words, and even more surprised to realize that he meant them. When had Mike begun to mean so much to him?

"Can we at least go check the Brooklyn address tomorrow?” she asked. “Just to be sure?"

"Absolutely. As long as everything remains calm and under control, I suppose it can't hurt."

And of course, that was when the network anchor broke into the scenes of rioting in Philadelphia to announce, with breathless horror, that several Brooklyn neighborhoods were burning.

 

*****

 

Following his cleaning, Mike was toweled dry by the attendants, who then rubbed sweet smelling lotion all over him. When they were finished, he stank of lavender and lemon, just like his bedding, and he wondered if he would ever be able to stomach the taste of lemons again.

He was led back towards his cell, but was not put inside. The large, middle space between the cells had been illuminated, and Mike saw what had been hidden before -- a raised stage. On the stage, a king sized bed was set in front of a huge armchair that looked suspiciously like a throne. Other equipment, which Mike refused to look at too closely, had been arranged in a loose semi-circle behind the bed.

Orsini walked straight to the armchair and sat down, leaning back and looking perfectly at ease. "This is where the magic happens," he told Mike. "Today you're an observer, my special guest. But next time you'll be my star performer."

He flicked a hand at the guards, who pushed Mike to his knees next to the chair, and used a short chain fastened to his collar to hold him in place. His arms were pulled behind his back and soft but sturdy cuffs used to hold his wrists together.

"Comfy?" asked Orsini.

After only a brief hesitation, Mike nodded.

Orsini frowned, and then spoke to one of the guards. "Get him a cushion for his knees. We're going to be here for a while." He glanced down at Mike, eyes shining with excitement. "It's a celebration. First, I need to share the marvelous news with all of my pets."

He nodded at the second guard, who handed him a wireless headset. Orsini put it on and adjusted it, clearing his throat. "Good evening, cherished pets. It is exciting times in the outside world. Not that any of you will ever need to worry yourselves about this, but a new law has been passed, ensuring that you will all belong to me forever."

That got Mike's attention. He could scarcely believe it, but it sounded as if the Ancient Regime party had finally managed to gain the votes needed to pass their regressive legislation. The realization of his new legal status hit him with as much sudden searing agony as the earlier electric shocks.

_I'm a slave. I'm a fucking slave._

Feeling ill, he looked around the room, at the cells lining each wall. All of the pets were posed on their beds, just under the overhead light, displaying themselves to best effect, gazes lowered and hands busy touching and stroking. He didn't see a single one of them react to the news. Were they that well trained, or did they simply not care?

Orsini was still talking. "Since this is a celebration, let's start with something fun. She's been a bad girl, but she's repented so prettily this past week, that I believe I'm prepared to welcome her back to our happy little family. She'll need to beg for it, though."

He signaled with one hand, and two more guards appeared, escorting a dark-haired young woman. As she passed Mike, he winced at the bruises decorating her body. She held her head up, eyes flashing with anger or defiance, displaying more spirit than any of the other pets. The guards stopped in front of Orsini and pushed the woman to her knees in front of him. Her gaze darted to Mike, and he thought he saw some tiny spark of recognition flare, only to be quickly hidden.

"Lola," Orsini said, voice filled with fake sadness, "you've been so stubborn. Tonight I'm prepared to forgive all of your many willful acts if you submit willingly to my punishment." When she didn't reply, he gave a dramatic sigh. "You may speak, my dear. Only say, 'I submit', and we can get this little bit of unpleasantness over with."

She glanced once more at Mike and then lowered her eyes. "I submit."

"Call me Master."

Her mouth tightened. "I submit...Master."

"Now beg."

Her throat worked convulsively. "Please, Master. Allow me to submit to your punishment."

Orsini smiled down at her. "Not bad. You almost sounded as if you mean it." He gave the guards a negligent wave of his hand. "Use the cross. Let's do thirty with the single tail. I don't want her too marked up."

While they busied themselves following his instructions, Orsini took a tablet from one of the guards.   From where Mike knelt, it looked as if the screen held a list of names. Orsini tapped several of the names, highlighting them, and handed the tablet back. Seconds later, cell doors began sliding silently open.   Four more guards marched down the walkway, entered the open rooms and unchained four of the pets, leading them to the stage.

"My three best boys," Orsini said, addressing Mike. "I think you'll find them highly diverting." He snapped his fingers. "Up on the bed, pretties."

The three young men, who were, in fact, astonishingly beautiful, climbed onto the bed and, with no further prompting, began to writhe and rub together, hands stroking, mouths kissing and licking. Mike only managed to pull his gaze away from the erotic display when the fourth pet stepped up and knelt between Orsini's spread legs.

"And this," said Orsini, petting he head, "is my dear Anastasia." He nodded at the large cross where Lola had been chained. "Proceed."

Strokes began to fall on Lola's back, steady and precise. At the same time, Anastasia deftly unfastened Orsini's trousers and lowered her head, taking his cock in her lush mouth. Orsini petted her while splitting his gaze between the bed and the cross. "If you close your eyes," he said conversationally to Mike, "you'll be next on the cross."

So Mike watched, nausea filling him. Lola took the punishment like a true stoic. It wasn't until the whipping was ten strokes in that she finally began to twitch slightly with each hit. Twenty strokes in, she made a small noise and then was silent.

The bed bounced with the exertions of the threesome. Mike tried and failed to picture himself up there with him, forced to perform for the perverse enjoyment of this awful man.

Orsini moaned loudly, thrusting up into Anastasia's mouth, the sound amplified by the headset he still wore. "You know the rules, boys," he forced out breathlessly to the trio on the bed. "All of you come before the punishment ends, or it's doubled."

And now Mike began to sweat it out for poor Lola, his gaze darting between her and the group on the bed. Thin, bloody stripes lined her pale back, trickling down her legs to the cement floor. On the bed, the pet with both his mouth and ass stuffed with cock shot first, quickly followed by the man who was fucking him. The third, the recipient of an enthusiastic blow job, couldn't seem to fall over the edge.

"Twenty-eight," counted off the guard.

Two men on the bed exchanged places, and it seemed that the second's technique was more solid, because just as the twenty-ninth stroke hit Lola's back, the final man gave a low cry and arched up, spilling down the other's throat.

"Thirty." The guard dropped his arm, standing at attention.

Orsini grasped Anastasia by the hair and pulled her off of him. "That's good, pet. Exquisite, as always. But Lola is going to finish me off."

Anastasia and the trio of young men were led away, Anastasia to her cell, and the others out of the room, presumably to be thoroughly cleaned.

As she was released from the cross, it was obvious that Lola could barely stand by herself. Mike wanted to scream and curse at the cruelty he was witnessing, and felt like the worst coward for staying quiet, but he couldn't think of any way that bringing punishment on himself would help Lola or anybody else.

Despite Orsini's earlier threat, he couldn't keep his eyes on the bed, couldn't watch the pain which clouded Lola's eyes as the third most powerful man in the empire raped her, thrusting viciously, and holding her bloody shoulders to the mattress to ensure the highest possible degree of torment.

Mike's gaze darted around the room, and he distracted himself by memorizing the lay out, along with every face he could see. His list was growing. To the names of Trevor and Katrina he added Orsini and every single guard, whose names he would make it his business to learn.

He swore to himself, as he knelt there, chained and helpless, that he would get out of this place, and that he would track down every person on his list, and he would make them pay.

 

******

 

"They've closed all the bridges," Harvey said when Donna stumbled out of his bedroom the next morning around nine-thirty. He'd let her sleep in his bed while he took the couch. He could have used Mike's room, but couldn't seem to tear his gaze from the news reports that kept flowing in.

It seemed as if the empire was breaking apart at the seams. He didn't doubt that the government would keep pushing back, and pushing back hard, with increasingly violent and vicious means. The official death toll stood at seventeen, and would undoubtedly climb higher as the protests continued.

He'd spoken with Jessica earlier. She'd closed down the firm, and everyone was instructed to stay away until things calmed down.

It had been hours last night before the fires had been contained. Whole blocks, nearly entire neighborhoods, stood in ruins in Brooklyn and Queens. It was as yet undetermined how the fires had been started, and by whom. The conservative news channels hinted that local rebel cells had been responsible, while the more moderate channels wanted to blame it on the indentures themselves. No one knew the real story, and Harvey wondered if they ever would.

The end result was hundreds of anxious indenture/slaves displaced and milling on street corners and near subway stations, as if unsure what to do or where to go. The government centurions, predictably, were treating them as threats to public safety, ordering them to disperse, but not offering any useful suggestions as to where they could go. The place was a powder keg, and Harvey had a sick feeling that it was not going to end well.

Upon her appearance, Donna headed straight to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee.

"So," she said, leaning on the breakfast bar for support, "no trip to Brooklyn?"

He shook his head. "Even if I thought it would do any good, there's no way to get there."

Donna pointed at the television. "Looks like they found a way."

The scene had shifted to the skies over the East River. Framed by the bright blue of a clear, sunny day, dozens of colorful dirigibles drifted on the currents, floating from Manhattan towards Brooklyn. As a camera drone scooted closer and zoomed in, Harvey could make out some of the family crests, all belonging to rich, conservative dynasties. In the gondolas suspended from the balloons, smug billionaires smiled and mugged for the camera, raising glasses of real French champagne, and feasting from the picnic baskets they'd brought along.

"Celebrations continue among members and supporters of the Ancient Regime party," the news anchor intoned. "Apparently destroyed neighborhoods and hundreds of desperate, displaced slaves in Brooklyn are seen by them as the perfect excuse for a fun outing in their million dollar dirigibles." The anchor's scorn was undisguised, meaning she'd probably be dismissed from her job within the hour.

Harvey had seen enough. He clicked off the television and leaned his head back against the couch. "What a colossal clusterfuck," he muttered.

"Maybe it's time to call Scottie back," Donna suggested, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee into the living room. Harvey accepted his with a nod of thanks.

"Her group specializes in extraction. Unfortunately, we still don't know where Mike is."

"So let's figure it out. You think he went to see this Trevor creep. Did he find him? Or did something else happen to him? Let's take it one scenario at time. What if he met up with Trevor? How would that play out?"

Harvey sighed. "The last time we spoke about Trevor, Mike was still carrying a lot of anger. At the very least, he would have tried to punch his lights out. Beyond that....my take on Mike is that he's tougher than he looks. He survived all those years on the run, and only returned because of his grandmother. I believe he could take just about anyone in a fair fight, but my instincts tell me that in his core, he's not a violent person. He might want to fight Trevor, but I don't think he would take it any further than that. Although I could be completely wrong about him. What?"

Halfway through his speech, Donna had gotten an odd look on her face. "Back up a little. What did you say about his grandmother?"

"That she was the reason Mike came back to New York?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Harvey, someone sent him a message about his grandmother, correct?"

Harvey nodded slowly. "Mike said it came from Trevor. So?"

Donna _tsk'd_ lightly and dropped into the chair across from Harvey. "If Trevor's the one who scammed Mike's grandmother, why would he want him back in New York? Even if Trevor wasn't the one who stole her money, he must have known that she died six months ago. Why lure Mike back here now?"

Harvey drank his coffee while he thought over what she'd just said. "Based on everything Vanessa's dug up on Trevor so far, I'd say it had something to do with money."

Donna started to look excited. "Someone had a reason for getting Mike back here, and maybe Trevor sent him the note, maybe not, but that's not what's important here. We need to figure out what the reason was." She tapped her fingers on the side of her mug for a few seconds. "What do you know about his time in the provinces?"

"Uh. Nothing?"

"You've got to be joking. You've been living with him for nearly a week and you haven't pumped him for details on what's really going on out there? I would have kept him up all night, asking questions."

"We didn't talk much."

"Wow. Just...wow."

They were both quiet as a helicopter flew low over the building.

Finally, Donna spoke again. "Based on what you've observed of Mike, what do you think someone might find so special or unique about him that they would go to the trouble of tricking him into returning to New York?"

The answer was so obvious, he didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him sooner. "His memory."

"Okay. Now we're getting somewhere. Maybe he saw something, or knew something...." She snapped her fingers a few times. "Maybe he was working with the rebels, and the government wants to use whatever he's got in his head to bring the network down.

Harvey shook his head. "You're reaching, Donna. For one thing, if it was the government, he'd still be in their custody. And secondly, if they had taken him last night, I doubt they would have disabled his chip."

She frowned. "I didn't think of that. Shit."

Something niggled at the edges of Harvey's thoughts and he went still, trying to coax it to the surface. Donna said something, and he held up his hand, silencing her. "Louis," he said.

Donna gave him a blank look. "Louis...what?"

"Yesterday, he gave me some crazy story about how he was supposed to be assigned as Mike's advocate, not me."

"And?"

"And he's gotten pretty tight with the proconsul and his crowd. Unlike his deputy, the current proconsul has spoken publicly about his objection to the use of torture to gain confessions."

True to form, Donna immediately understood what he was getting at. "And somebody got the bright idea to trick the information out of him, by using Louis to befriend him? They obviously don't know Louis very well."

"Louis can be charming at times, in his own weird way. Still, that may solve one mystery, but I think Louis also solved the second one, of where Mike is now. Mike's temper got the better of him the other day, and he couldn't help showing off a little, in front of Katrina."

She pulled a disgusted face. "Eww. Bad idea."

"According to Louis, ever since Mike's little demonstration, the Orsinis have shown an unnatural interest in Mike."

"Double eww. But they couldn't have known where Mike was last night. Could they?"

Harvey slumped in his seat. "That does seem like a stretch. There has to be something we're missing. How about we have some more coffee, I'll fix us breakfast, and we'll work on it some more."

Deep inside, he felt no confidence that all of the brain-storming in the world would do Mike any good. Even if the Orsini's did have him, how did you just walk up to the front door of the deputy proconsul and inquire as to the whereabouts of your runaway slave?

 

******

 

Orsini's "celebration" went on for hours. Slave after slave was selected to come out and play, like some twisted game show. Some were whipped or flogged or spanked, some forced to couple with other pets, and surprisingly, some performed, displaying actual, impressive talents.

A baby grand piano was wheeled to the stage, and a young man pounded out a complicated piece that Mike thought he recognized as one of the banned pieces of the heretic Mozart. It would have been an enjoyable performance, except that simultaneous to the music, another man who was bent over a padded bench was yelling in agony while being beaten with a heavy leather strap.

Later on, an ethereal beauty produced such beautiful sounds from her violin that Mike wanted to cry. He did cry, soon after, when two guards held her down and violated her with her own violin bow before Orsini took her with unrestrained violence.

Impotent rage filled Mike. How could any of this be real? How could such a powerful man hide this cruel depravity? And how could this actually be allowed, according to the laws of the empire?

He remembered scoffing at what he'd considered the naïve fervor of the rebels. Now, finally, he understood why they risked their lives, and he was filled with a wholly useless desire to turn back the clock, to join their cause wholeheartedly to tear down the entire rotten, filthy system.

He was dizzy with exhaustion and emotion when Orsini finally called an end to the grotesque orgy of sex and violence. Mike had lost count of how many pets had been herded out to the stage, but he wouldn't have been shocked to learn that all of them had taken a turn. As the last of them was returned to their cell, cleaned up, and Mike hoped, given medical attention, Orsini, turned to Mike, speaking to him for the first time in hours.

"So, pet, now you've seen how I pamper my pretties. It's rare that I have the time to allow everyone their chance in the spotlight. Sadly, I may have to actually put in a public appearance soon, when things settle down."

 _What things?_ Mike didn't dare speak the question out loud, but it had him curious.

"As soon as I have another free hour or two, you will have the spotlight all to yourself. Don't worry, you will be properly initiated. And now, I believe I've worked up quite the appetite. Behave yourself." He had turned off his microphone, and now he switched it back on. "Good night, pets. It was a magnificent evening, yes? As a reward, you will all get something extra with your breakfast tray. Sleep well."

With that, Orsini retired, and it was left to the guards to free Mike and lead him back to his cell, where he was chained again to the bed. As the glass door slid shut, they leered in at him, making kissy faces and grabbing themselves obscenely. As tempting as it was to flip them the bird, Mike was too mindful of the painful electric shocks which would undoubtedly be his reward for acting out.

He lay on the bed, curling up into a ball. If he'd had anything in his stomach, he probably would have vomited it all over the floor. He was too disheartened to even attempt to go to one of his happy places in his mind. He wasn't sure he even had any happy places anymore. They'd all been defiled and destroyed by what he'd been forced to witness.

He wondered, not for the first time since he'd woken up to this nightmare, if Trevor was responsible for putting him here. Was this the collector Jenny had mentioned? All evidence pointed to that conclusion. He didn't want to believe there could be more Orsinis out there, hiding their sick little hobbies behind titles and family prestige.

He tossed and turned, trying to find some hope in his situation, some weakness in the security or the routine of the guards. His mind was in chaos, though, the ugly scenes playing over and over again. Finally, he was simply too tired to stay awake, and dropped into a restless, uneasy sleep.

 

_"Mike."_

Mike struggled to the surface and opened his eyes. What had woken him up?

_"Mike Ross."_

The voice was a disembodied whisper, drifting out of the speakers in the ceiling. His stomach cramped with dread. Was he being summoned to Orsini already?

_"Mike Ross, I can help you."_

He sat up. All the cells were darkened for sleep. As far as he could tell, no one stood outside his cell.

"Who are you?" he whispered. "Are you fucking with me?"

A ghostly laugh. _"No, Mike, I'm not fucking with you. Right now, I'm you're only friend in the world."_

"Friend? Who in all the hells are you?"

_"I'm the one that's going to get you out of here."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! And, as always thanks for reading!


	18. Chapter 18

“Who are you?”

_“Keep your voice down and pay attention. I can’t hack this system all night.”_

Mike strained to hear anything that would help him identify his apparent benefactor, but he couldn’t even have said for sure whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman.

“When?” he whispered. “How soon? Because this place is fucking nuts and Orsini is out for my ass.”

Another dry laugh rustled around his head. _“Yes, I’m aware of all that. Be ready tonight. I don’t know how late.”_

“And…what? That’s it? What do I do? How will I know when it’s time? Is everyone getting out?”

_“Mike. Shut up. Don’t eat anything they feed you. Unless they serve toast, but stay away from the butter and jam. The water is okay, but not the juice. When the guards patrol, pretend you’re asleep and they’ll leave you alone.”_

“What about my bathroom breaks?”

_“Oh, for – fine. Take your two allotted piss breaks if you need to.”_ A burst of static. _“Shit. I have to shut this down. Just be patient and wait. You’ll know when it’s time.”_

Silence fell. “Hello? That’s it?” There was no answer. Mike curled back up on the bed, fear and hope dueling it out inside of him. He wanted to believe the disembodied voice, but he’d seen how tightly Orsini had the place locked down, and he just didn’t see how escape was even possible.

 

******

 

By early afternoon, Donna had begun making noises about trying to find her way home. Harvey vetoed her and then turned up the volume on the television. According to the news reports, unrest roiled in every corner of the empire. Government forces had slowly restored order in many places, but Maine, Vermont, Washington and parts of California had issued declarations of secession. Harvey didn’t rate their chances of success highly.

Closer to home, the Brooklyn refugees had migrated as a group to Prospect Park and set up camp. Someone had raised a hand-lettered flag proclaiming them “The People’s Free Republic of Flatbush.” Nearby stores and restaurants had already begun supplying them with food and water and other necessities.

“That has disaster written all over it,” Harvey muttered, swirling his French brandy before taking a sip.

From her spot on the floor, where she sat cross-legged with a glass of wine balanced between two fingers, Donna gave a theatrical sigh. “At least they’re showing a little backbone and _doing_ something. I’d be over there helping if the bridges weren’t still blocked to traffic.”

“Maybe you could highjack one of those dirigibles.”

“Hilarious.”

He’d taken a breath preparatory to firing off another snarky volley when someone knocked on the door.

_Mike,_ was his first thought. He surged to his feet and strode to the door, but when he pulled it open it wasn’t Mike that he found outside.

“Rachel?” he said, confused.

“Can I come in?”

He moved to the side and wordlessly waved her in.

Donna had risen from the floor. “What are you doing – oh, hold up. Uh uh. Fuck no. Who the hells are you?”

“Donna?” Harvey turned to give his assistant an incredulous stare, fearing she might have suffered a psychotic break.

Donna stalked closer to the woman who, as far as Harvey could tell, was absolutely, demonstrably Rachel the paralegal from work, and circled her slowly, rather in the manner of a stalking lioness. “Oh, you look like her – if Rachel shopped at Goodwill.” Donna leaned in and sniffed. “But you don’t smell like her. I’m getting…hospital…dirty cab…cheap soap.”

Rachel frowned and stepped back, out of sniffing range. “Jessica warned me about you. You’re right, though. My name is Rachel, but I’m not the Rachel that you know.”

“What is this?” Harvey demanded, although he was beginning to have his suspicions.

“This….” Rachel sagged, seeming all at once exhausted. “I’m here about your indenture, Mike Ross.”

“What about him?” Harvey stepped closer.

“Do you think I could have a glass of water first?”

Harvey nodded at Donna, but she was already moving toward the kitchen.

“Let’s sit down,” he said, leading Rachel to the couch. “Would you like something to eat as well?” He could see circles under her eyes and lines of tension near her mouth.

“Some crackers, maybe. Or a sandwich.” Her gaze had gone to the television, which she watched intently.

“On it,” Donna called, and he gave her a grateful smile.

While Donna busied herself in the kitchen, Harvey studied Rachel. Now that he was really looking at her, he could see the differences. Unlike the paralegal, she wore no makeup. Her hair, looking badly in need of some conditioner – and a trim – was confined in a messy ponytail. She wore jeans that were several seasons out of date, a plain grey t-shirt, an imitation leather jacket that was probably supposed to mimic one of the designer brands, and worn brown suede low-heeled boots.

His gaze returned to her face. It wasn’t exactly politically correct to ask, but that had never bothered him before. “You’re a clone?”

He saw her wince, and then quickly recover. “Got it in one. Jessica was right about you too.”

Donna appeared, carrying a tray filled with cheese and crackers and nectarine slices, a glass of tap water, and another glass of the wine she’d opened earlier. She set everything on the coffee table in front of Rachel.

Rachel gulped down half the glass of water, and then attacked the plate of food like a starved but well-mannered chipmunk.

Harvey sat in his armchair, while Donna took a seat next to Rachel. “So you know Jessica?”

A rapid nod, and then Rachel washed down the food with the wine that Donna pressed into her hand. “She and Scottie said I could trust you. Which is good, because at this point I _need_ to trust you.”

Harvey narrowed his eyes. “So Scottie and Jessica….”

“Are both dedicated abolitionists, just like me. Could we skip past the shocked realizations so that I can tell you why I’m here?”

“I’m not shocked,” Donna said, pouring herself some more wine. “I always suspected that Jessica was more liberal than she let on. Do you actually know our Rachel? Or did you just share a test tube with her?”

“Donna, that’s hardly polite….”

Rachel shook her head, her eyes glittering with both impatience and humor. “It’s fine. And no, I’ve not met her.” She fixed herself another tiny cheese and cracker sandwich and popped it in her mouth. “This cheese is fantastic,” she rhapsodized through a mouthful of crumbs.

“Harvey knows the best smugglers. The wine, though. Am I right?”

Harvey tried to regain control of the conversation. “I’ll send you home with samples of everything if you’ll get to the point and tell me why you’re here.”

Rachel blushed and twisted her mouth, looking suddenly more like the paralegal Rachel. “Sorry. I’m here because I know where Mike is.”

Harvey leaned forward, hope flaring inside of him. “You couldn’t have led with that? So? Where is he?”

Rachel set her wine glass down and dusted off her hands. “It’s somewhat...problematic. My group had him under surveillance, but he was still grabbed from right under our noses.”

“By…?”

“Deputy Proconsul Orsini.”

Harvey reached for his phone. “Fantastic. I’ll see if my driver is available.”

Rachel was shaking her head. “Slow down a little. Even if Orsini were to let you inside his palazzo, or admit to any wrongdoing, you can’t just walk Mike out of there.”

“I hold his contract, and Orsini is sworn to uphold the laws of the empire.”

“Oh, please. I know you’re not that naïve. I’m telling you that nothing you say is going to get Orsini to give up one of his pets, at least not without a drawn-out legal fight. But believe me when I tell you that the last thing you want to do is free Mike right now. There’s an ex-military sniper stationed just across the street from the Orsini home. She has orders to put a bullet in Mike’s brain, should he ever make his way out of the basement.”

Donna’s eyes had gone wide, and Harvey knew his had done the same. “Why?” was all he could think to ask, forcing the word out past a suddenly dry throat.

“Because he’s a danger to every anti-imperial group he came in contact with during his years in the provinces. Even if he’s not aware of it, he holds information inside his head that could damage every network that’s been set up over the last twenty years or more. If he talks, all of those years of planning and sacrifice will mean nothing. With everything that’s happening right now, we can’t let him destroy all of that work.”

“Mike wouldn’t do that,” Harvey insisted.

“Are you so sure? How well do you even know him?”

Harvey didn’t wish to examine that question too closely. It was true that he hadn’t known Mike for long, but his gut told him he was right about the boy. He decided to deflect with a question of his own. “So now we know where Mike is, and you’re saying we should leave him there. Is that all you came here to tell me, or is there more?” He had no intention of letting Mike stay with Orsini, but chose to keep that to himself.

Rachel took a dainty sip of wine and put the glass down again. “There are other forces at work, other groups in play that we can’t control. I’m asking – and Jessica is asking, and Scottie is asking – that if the government somehow gets its hands on Mike, you will step in to represent him as his advocate.”

“I’d do that regardless.”

“There’s more. When you meet with him, as you should be allowed to do, we want you to give him this.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small, clear zip-locked bag containing a single capsule.

“And what is that?” asked Harvey, taking the bag from her and holding it by one corner.

“It’s a fast acting poison. Tell him it’s a pain-killer, or whatever you need to in order to get him to swallow it. Like I said, it’s fast acting. He probably won’t feel anything.”

Harvey slowly moved his gaze from the capsule to Rachel’s face. “He _probably_ won’t feel anything?” He was amazed by how calm his voice sounded, how it didn’t even shake with the sudden rage that tore through him. “And you want me to believe that Jessica and Scottie are okay with this?”

Rachel’s expression was filled with sorrowful compassion. “Believe me, Harvey, it will be a merciful death, and much easier on Mike than all of the tortures he’d face at the hands of the government inquisitors.”

“This is your idea of merciful?” With a whip of his wrist, he flung the bag of poison back in her face and experienced a brief stab of satisfaction at the way she flinched as she caught it in one hand. “Maybe I’ll just advise him to spill everything he knows, if this is the best he can expect from you and your group.”

Rachel stood slowly, laying the poison capsule in its bag on the coffee table and leaving it there. “Sacrifices must be made, Harvey. You think I haven’t made any? I’ve made plenty, and I’m prepared to do anything it takes to keep advancing our cause. Maybe you’d understand better if you’d ever experienced one difficult day in your privileged life.”

Surprisingly, it was Donna that spoke up. “You’re way out of line,” she said voice grimly quiet. “And look – I agree with what your group is trying to accomplish, and even if he won’t come out and admit it, I think Harvey does too. What you’re suggesting, though, is cold-blooded murder. I don’t know Mike all that well, but I can recognize a kind heart when I see one. He deserves better than what his friend dealt him, what the empire has dealt him, what Orsini has dealt him, and what you’re asking Harvey to do. Let me ask you something: if you don’t stand up for people like him, what good are you and all of your high-minded ideals?”

He’d never admit it, but Harvey was proud of his assistant in that moment. He kept his expression neutral, curious to see how Rachel would respond. She looked between Harvey and Donna, face animated but unreadable. Finally, shaking her head, she picked up her purse and headed to the door.

Harvey grabbed the poison and followed her, stopping her before she could turn the handle. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “Keep it. You might change your mind in the next few days, once you start to understand what’s at stake. That is, if Mike makes it out of Orsini’s basement in one piece – and avoids the sniper’s bullet.”

The door closed quietly behind her and Harvey blew out a long breath. “ _Fuck_.” He felt Donna’s hand on his shoulder.

“He’s going to be okay, Harvey.” As if she realized how hollow that reassurance sounded, Donna gave his shoulder a squeeze, followed by several pats. “At least we know where he is now.”

He turned and gave her a desolate look. “Strangely enough, that doesn’t make me feel any better.” After a few seconds of thought, he walked back to the coffee table and picked up his phone.

“Jessica?” Donna asked him.

“Scottie first, then Jessica. I can’t believe either of them would condone what that girl is suggesting.”

 

******

 

Breakfast arrived. It consisted of oatmeal, orange juice and a glass of tepid water. Paying heed to the late night advice of his unknown “friend,” Mike only drank the water. Then, ignoring his complaining stomach, he dumped the oatmeal and juice between the mattress and the bed frame, hoping that the rooms weren’t cleaned daily. He remained passive while two guards led him to the bathroom, ignoring their leers and filthy comments. He gathered from the conversation that passed between them that they weren’t allowed to touch him until Orsini had broken him in.

The other pets weren’t as lucky, and as the day wore on and the guards amused themselves at will, Mike finally had to lie down, turn his back and jam a pillow over his head, determined to block everything out. His hands curled into fists as impotent rage filled him. At least the walls muffled most of the sounds.

It was difficult to judge the passing of time, but it was probably mid-afternoon when he received a visitor.

“It’s so gratifying to finally see you in your natural habitat.”

The voice came from the speakers. Mike sat up and whirled around, glancing up at the ceiling before realizing that someone stood in front of the glass wall. It was a blonde someone that made him want to hurl his body through the glass so he could wrap his hands around her slender neck.

“Katrina.” He’d never been modest concerning his body, but for the first time since he’d woken up here, he felt the urge to cover himself. Ignoring that urge, he stood up and stalked to the glass, wishing he could shoot death lasers from his eyes to incinerate the evil Barbie doll who smirked back at him. “Shouldn’t you be at work, failing miserably at your chosen profession?”

She smiled prettily at him, held up the tablet she held for him to see, and tapped it three times.

Mike clamped his mouth shut against the shriek that threatened as electricity stabbed through him.

“Daddy lets me help train the pets sometimes.” Her gaze clashed with his for several seconds. “Please Mike, go ahead. Break the rules. Speak your mind. I’m dying to really crank this thing up and watch you jerk like a worm on a hook.”

He managed to stay quiet, but it was a near thing.

“That’s better, but I think you should lower your eyes. Defiance is not allowed in Daddy’s pets.”

Jaw tightening, Mike let his gaze slip to the floor.

“Not bad. I’m still not quite buying it, though. Tell you what: I’ll leave you alone – for now – if you kneel for me.”

Mike closed his eyes briefly and forced down a boulder-sized knot of resentment and anger. He only needed to last a few hours longer. Conjuring up an image of how Katrina would react when she discovered he was gone helped.

He slid to his knees and lowered his head, the perfect picture of submission.

“My goodness, that’s a pretty picture. Now, stay just like that, let’s say….until dinnertime. I’ll leave instructions for the guards to punish you if you move so much as an inch. Oh, and welcome to the zoo, Mike. It’s going to be such a pleasure having you here.”

Anger made him tremble, but he stayed where he was, ignoring the voices of the guards that came by to taunt him, and blocking out the sounds of misery and pain that drifted in from every side and made him grateful that he didn’t have anything in his stomach besides water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter than usual, I think. Next up: The Great Escape.
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos!


	19. Chapter 19

“Forget it, Harvey, I’m not having this conversation over the phone.”

On the television, a phalanx of centurions in Novus Angelus turned high-powered hoses on a group of secessionists who were seated on the ground in front of a government building. Harvey winced at the effect the blast of water had on the peaceful protestors, shoving them backwards into the marble-faced wall of the building, arms flung up to protect their panicked faces.

“Jessica, I’m not asking for a confession. I just want to know if you’re in agreement with Rachel, and if you condone what she is suggesting.”

A long sigh came through the phone. The centurions began firing into the crowd with what looked to be live ammunition. Jessica must have been tuned to the same news channel, because he heard her sudden intake of breath, followed by a series of low curses.

Finally, Jessica said, “I know of her and her group. They’ve worked together in the past with…other groups I’m aware of. Killing an ally is never the objective. However, in this case it is true that the circumstances are…unique.”

“Did you know about Mike?” Harvey asked, no longer interested in hints and innuendos and doublespeak. “Did you know who he was?”

The screen suddenly filled with static, and a second later switched to the studio, where a news anchor began speaking excitedly.

“Shit,” said Jessica. “Those people are so screwed.”

“They knew the consequences when they set out to defy the government.”

Harvey heard the clink of ice cubes, and pictured Jessica in her impeccably furnished apartment sipping her expensive sherry from a cut crystal glass. “That’s some cold shit, Harvey. What are you looking for here, anyway? An admission? Advice? In case it has escaped your notice, the gods damned empire is falling apart. People are dying by the _dozens._ Do you actually think anybody will grieve the loss of some little orphan boy who knows too much?”

He was taken aback by the bitterness in her voice, and it took him a moment to muster a response. “Anybody besides me, you mean?”

She gave a soft laugh. “Well, stop the fucking presses. Harvey Specter has a heart.” More delicate clinking of ice cubes. “You picked a damned inconvenient time to figure that out, but there’s your answer.”

“To which question?”

“To all of them, including the ones most people never think to ask.”

He glanced down at Donna, who was polishing off the second bottle of wine and beginning to look suspiciously shit-faced. “You lost me.”

“I have to go, Harvey, but think about this: for every lost little nobody, there’s somebody somewhere who gives a shit about them, and who will miss them like crazy when they’re gone. Add together all of the nobodies and the somebodies, multiply that by hundreds, thousand, millions even, and what have you got?”

He massaged his forehead. “Are you drunk?”

He heard her swallow. She couldn’t be crying, because she was… _Jessica_. “I’ll tell you’ve what you’ve got. One fucked up world. Fucked up beyond belief.”

The line went dead.

Donna looked up from the floor. “So? What did our dear leader have to say?”

“It was difficult to decipher. I think she’s been hitting the sherry harder than usual. Or inhaling Delphic fumes.” He was already dialing Scottie’s number, hoping she’d have something more lucid to contribute. The call went straight to voice mail, however.

“Cool. And what was her take on things? Did she let loose with an enigmatic prophesy? Will oceans of blood drip from the rooftops? Or do we have a boiling tortoise situation on our hands?” She drained her wine glass and lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling.

Harvey set his phone down. “You’re cut off,” he told Donna.

The television announcer was now declaring that the imperial government had reestablished control everywhere except the province of Washington and small pockets of Novus Angelus. Harvey doubted that they were being given the entire story.

“Let’s secede,” Donna suggested suddenly. “You and me.”

He shook his head, half amused and half irritated with his tipsy friend. “Not interested. You think I want to grow a beard and wear socks with my sandals like those hippies in Seattle?”

She snorted. “Hippies? Really? Maybe I like beards.”

“Maybe you should go take a nap.”

“Maybe we should move to Seattle. We could make babies and flip the figurative bird at the empire.” She sat abruptly and crawled up onto the couch, lying on her stomach with her head cradled on one bent arm. “And the literal one, too.”

“Not helping.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temples in an unsuccessful attempt to ease his growing headache. “What are we going to do about Mike?”

She seemed to think it over. “He’s invited. We’ll all move to Seattle and raise babies. And arugula.”

“Fuck me,” Harvey muttered, standing up. “I’m going to fix us some dinner. You obviously need something solid in your stomach.”

“Harvey?”

“Hm?” He glanced at her from the kitchen and saw that her eyes were closed.

“If I have a vote, I vote to not kill Mike.”

He pulled two steaks from the freezer. “Me too.”

The problem was, he wasn’t sure either of them had a vote in the matter.

 

After he’d fed Donna and sent her to bed, Harvey tried Scottie’s number again, with the same result. He was trying to decide whether to turn off the news, or stay up all night mainlining chaos and panic and death. He still hadn’t made up his mind when his phone rang. Seeing who it was, he snatched up the phone.

“Vanessa?”

“Who else? Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

“I know where Mike is,” Harvey cut in.

A short silence, followed by a husky laugh. “I’m still billing you for my time.”

“Of course. And that better be the bad news.”

“Indeed it is. If the rumors about Orsini are to be trusted, it is very bad news. The good news – or at least _better_ news – is that Trevor Evans did not embezzle Edith Ross’s pension.”

“Hm. That’s good news for Mike. I think. Not sure how it helps us.”

“Oddly enough, it does help us. Perhaps not immediately, but in the long run it could prove extremely useful. Because, you see, me being me, I did a bit more digging, and it turns out that Ms. Ross was not the only elderly person whose pension went missing in the last couple of years. I found hundreds in Brooklyn alone. The majority of those – a full 87% -- followed the same path as Mike’s grandmother and opted for assisted suicide.”

“That’s…tragic,” Harvey said. “But how – ”

“Be quiet and let me finish. I checked, and there are a grand total of two companies who obtained government contracts to administer the farewell cocktail. It’s actually a fairly lucrative business, especially when their sales reps practically haunt the nursing homes and long-term care facilities, drumming up clients. And by some amazing coincidence, both licensed companies are owned by the same corporate entity, which also had thousands of pension accounts signed over to it in the last two years.”

Another helicopter buzzed the building, its searchlight momentarily shining into Harvey’s apartment. He blinked away the afterimage and digested what Vanessa had told him. “It all sounds predictably scandalous. I don’t see how it helps us, though, except to tie up one loose end for Mike.”

“Sometimes you are so unimaginative, Harvey. Try to guess, if you will, who is the majority shareholder of the parent corporation in question. I’ll even give you hint. The name of the corporation is Orsini International.”

“Oh,” said Harvey.

“Yeah. Oh.

 

*****

 

Despite his best efforts, Mike fell asleep shortly after dinner was served. He pretended to be asleep in order to avoid the temptation of food he couldn’t eat, and pretense became reality as the stress of the last few days overcame him.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was dark. He sat up and stared around his cell, but nothing seemed to have changed. As his eyes adjusted, though, he realized that the glass wall had slid to the side, leaving the cell wide open, which was probably what woke him up.

He tested the chain around his ankle, finding it still just as secure and unyielding as ever. Before he had time to gather his thoughts, a shadowy form slipped into this cell. He squinted, making out dark hair and a naked body that was decidedly female. She carried what appeared to be one of the guards’ electronic tablets.

Cutting off his attempt to speak, she whispered, “We have to move fast.” Her fingers flew over the tablet’s screen, and his ankle restraint fell away. “Let’s go.”

But Mike hung back, earning him an impatient look. “What about everyone else?” he asked

She shook her head and grabbed his arm, dragging him along after her. “Don’t worry about them. When the time comes, they’ll be free.”

He didn’t know what that meant. Was “the time” a few minutes from now? Tomorrow? Some hypothetical point in the distant future? He wasn’t given an opportunity to ask, though, as he was hurried past the cells, past the community bathroom, and into a dimly lit stairwell. With the small amount of light now available, he recognized his rescuer. It was Lola.

“What about the guards?” he asked breathlessly as they climbed upwards. “And won’t we need clothes?”

“Two minutes,” she said, voice grim. “Just give me two minutes of quiet and I’ll explain everything.”

They reached a door labeled with a large red “1.” Lola passed it and kept going.

“Wait,” Mike hissed at her. “This must lead to the outside.” He put his hand on the door knob. “Shouldn’t we – ”

Lola skipped down four steps and grabbed his wrist in a grip so bruising it felt as if his bones were grinding together. “Mike. You’re not the smartest person in the room right now. That would be me. So either shut up and follow me, or walk through that door and die. Your choice. What’s it gonna be?”

Her urgency got through to him this time. “F-follow,” he said, and when she let go and continued up the stairs at a run, he matched her pace. “ _Come with me if you want to live_ ,” he recited under his breath, and was surprised at the low laugh which drifted back to him.

He was panting and perspiring freely when they finally stopped on the landing where the stairs ended ten floors up. “Shit. Where’s this guy live? In a palace?”

“Yes, actually.” The door was locked and Lola’s face was tense with concentration as she worked at picking it. He recognized the tool she used as the same one Rachel had given him, and which currently resided underneath his socks back at Harvey’s apartment. Unlike Mike, Lola apparently came prepared to a breakout.

“What are we going to do when you get the door open?” he asked. “Rappel down the side of the building? Grow wings?”

She shot him an irritated look as she continued to wiggle and manipulate the tool in the lock. “Trevor should have warned me what a chatty little fucker you are.”

Mike froze with shock. It was several seconds before he could speak again. “ _Trevor_?” He fairly squeaked the word at her. “You’re talking about Trevor Evans?”

“Hush. Yes, Trevor. Do you think I conjured that tablet and this lock pick out of thin air? Or those?” She nodded to the corner of the landing at a pile of clothes Mike hadn’t noticed earlier. “Quit gawping and get dressed.”

“I wasn’t gawping,” he muttered, but was happy enough to obey her. He set aside the clothes obviously intended for a woman, and dressed in the men’s clothes, which turned out to be of excellent quality and were even a decent fit. Not finding any underwear, he pulled on black wool gabardine pants and a grey button down shirt. Whoever had provided the clothes – was it really Trevor, as Lola had implied? – hadn’t included any shoes, but he wasn’t about to quibble over that minor detail.

Lola made a soft sound of triumph, and immediately grabbed up her new clothes to begin dressing. “Don’t even think about touching that door until I say so,” she warned him, dragging a sleeveless black dress over her head, followed by a white sweater. “Okay. Pay close attention. When I open the door, run, don’t walk, to the end of the gondola. When we’re both in position, I’ll give you a signal to release the mooring cables.”

“The cables on the what, now?”

She rolled her eyes and pushed the door open. “Go. Go, Mike!”

He slipped out the door, started to run, and then stopped so suddenly that Lola crashed into his back. They had exited on the flat roof of Orsini’s palazzo. To the west was the Hudson River. To the east, where the sun was just starting to rise, he could see Central Park, and beyond that, the East River, or what was visible between the high-rises. He took the scenery in with a quick glance, before his gaze became riveted to the huge contraption that loomed over them, nearly filling the rooftop.

Shaped like an enormous bullet with fins on one end, the balloon portion of the dirigible had been painted pale cream, with colorful flowers and curlicue flourishes, all set around the Orsini family crest. Heavy steel cables tethered the balloon to the rooftop, although the helium gas inside kept it floating far enough above the surface to accommodate the narrow gondola suspended beneath it.

“This is our getaway car?” Mike said, disbelief filling his voice.

“It will be, if you can put your eyeballs back in your head long enough to follow simple instructions. Mike? We have to release the cables, or we’re not going anywhere. And we have to work together. You still with me?”

“Yeah.” Along with the terror of being caught, excitement now buzzed through him at the prospect of flying Orsini’s own airship out of here. “Tell me what I need to do.”

In the end, it was a fairly simple matter of unclipping sets of cables on either side of the balloon structure at the same time. The cables were designed to automatically coil up into square boxes affixed to the top of the structure, something in the manner of the metal tape on a tape measure. The final two cables held the gondola to the roof, and by then the dirigible had begun to bob and buck with the wind, as if ready to break its bonds and fly free.

“You’re going to have to remove the last two,” Lola instructed, climbing into the swaying gondola via a short rope ladder. “Wait for my signal.” She moved to the back of the ornate basket-like conveyance. He couldn’t see what she was doing, but evidently she’d found the engine starter, because in less than a minute a low hum began, and the propellers at the back of the gondola began to spin, slowly at first, and gradually picking up speed. “Now!” called Lola.

Mike released the first cable and sprinted to the other side of the gondola.

“Be ready to jump,” Lola warned him.

The final cable was tricky, because the dirigible was already straining for its release. “Can you bring it down a little?” he asked. “I need some slack.”

She shook her head no. “I can’t risk damaging the propellers. Just give it good yank. It’s now or never, Mike.”

Mouth pressed together in determination, he squeezed the lever at the bottom of the cable and pulled with all of his strength. It came loose suddenly, sending him sprawling backwards.

“Get in!” yelled Lola. “Hurry.”

Whatever Lola was doing with the controls kept the gondola close to the rooftop, but the wind had caught the balloon, making it drift away from Mike, towards the edge. Wasting no time, he leapt to his feet and lunged for the top edge of the gondola. As he caught it, a gust of wind pushed the balloon several feet and he found himself hanging on with his feet dangling over nothing. His weight caused the gondola to dip to one side.

He took one quick glance below him and then felt two strong hands under his armpits. He found a foothold in the wires cradling the bottom of the gondola, and with Lola pulling, and him pushing off with one foot, together they managed to haul him up and he tumbled inside. Luckily, the Orsinis didn’t skimp on the luxuries, and the bottom of the gondola was thickly padded and liberally strewn with satiny pillows.

Climbing to his knees, Mike chanced a glance over the side. Behind them, Orsini’s palazzo fell away…but oh, so very slowly. At least no guards had appeared yet on the roof.

“Can’t we go any faster?” Mike asked, moving closer to the back and taking a seat near Lola.

“These things aren’t made for speed. Just relax. I’m jamming the camera drones for now. Unfortunately, we’ll need to stay low to maintain the wi-fi connection.”

He scanned the quickly lightening skies around them, but couldn’t see any other vehicles in the air this early. “We’re not exactly inconspicuous up here. What if someone spots us?”

Lola smiled at him, making her look both smug and cynical. “Do your best to appear rich and debauched. No one even knows we’re missing yet.”

“What about Orsini’s guards?”

Her eyes glittered with malice. “When they wake up, they’ll be too busy puking and shitting their guts out to give us much thought.”

He let that sink in, unable to spare even a crumb of sympathy for the guards. He took a short while to simply gaze about him soaking in the calm and beauty of the morning, amazed at how quiet and still the air was up here. Give him a picnic basket and a bottle of champagne, and he could almost pretend they were just a couple taking a romantic ride over the city.

Then he thought of all of the other pets, still locked up in the misery of Orsini’s basement zoo, and the brief moment of peace was gone.

“So what about the rest of them? All those people we left behind?”

She continued to smile at him like a seraph. “Orsini is going down, Mike. Between what you know, and what I can do with a computer, we are going to expose every one of his crimes, until the only one left locked up will be him.”

Mike frowned back at her. “Crimes? I hate to say it, but the law allows everything I saw the other night. Those were all his indentures – slaves, pets, whatever – and if he doesn’t permanently damage them, there’s nothing we or anyone else can do.”

“And what if they don’t belong to him?”

He maybe a scoffing sound. “You mean like me? Technically, I was a runaway. And unless I’m mistaken, the new law grants rights to any free person over any slave, runaway or not.”

“Mike….” The wind shifted, pushing the dirigible north, and Lola made a slight adjustment, returning it to its southeast heading. “I know you’ve been lost in the provinces for a while, but surely they have news feeds out there? Did you not keep up on current events at all?”

He shrugged. “None of that seemed important. New York was so far away.”

“Too bad, or you might have recognized some of the faces in Orsini’s zoo. That pianist? Jason Waxman, winner of the Copeland Medal two years in a row. He disappeared over a year ago. Just…poof! Gone. Not an indenture. Probably never broke a single law in all of his privileged life.”

“One guy….”

“Not just one. Probably a third of those pets were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, too pretty for their own good.”

“So Orsini gets slapped with some fines, maybe has a surrogate serve his sentence for him. Proconsul Getty and the emperor will fall all over themselves excusing and protecting him. He’s one of their own. They all watch each other’s back.”

Lola shook her head slowly. “You really didn’t recognize her?”

“Recognize who?”

“The pretty little violinist. She was destined for great things. Her father was going to see to that, and she really is talented. What a story. That inbred family of cutthroats and robber barons and barely functional morons finally produced the perfect little princess. Her disappearance was the top of the news for weeks. Rewards were offered. The inquisitors broke countless poor souls for nothing. No one ever suspected that she’d been residing in Orsini’s basement all this time.”

Mike felt sick, remembering the abuse she’d suffered. He didn’t want to think about that. In the distance, he could just make out the Brooklyn Bridge, and wondered where they were headed.

“Do you know who that girl is, Mike? Her name is Carlotta Getty. That’s right. Let that sink in for a moment. Orsini kidnapped the proconsul’s daughter. Still don’t think we can take the bastard down?”

“We?” he asked weakly. “But aren’t we leaving New York? We should turn around and fly north. We could make it across the border into Canada….”

Her gaze hardened. “Don’t,” she hissed, “even think of going soft on me. Do you have any idea what I endured down there? How many ways I was raped and degraded? When that harpy Katrina asked me to research you, I could hardly believe the gift that had fallen in my lap. Our inside man, Trevor, even knew you. It was perfect. You were a fucking gift from the gods. All we had to do was get you inside the basement, get your freaky little brain to record one of the monster’s orgy nights, and now we’re going to let the whole world know what he’s done.”

Mike had no response to that. He felt pity for Lola, but at the moment he was also a little bit afraid of her. Her face and her trembling voice hinted at the unhinged fanatic just below her surface calm. He looked away from her and his stomach seized with fear. Far behind them, but gaining too quickly, he spotted a government helicopter. “Uh,” he said, pointing.

“Shit,” muttered Lola. She glared at the screen of the tablet. “I lost the connection. We’re going to have to go lower.” She manipulated the controls, and the dirigible dropped suddenly, seeming to leave Mike’s stomach hovering fifty feet above them before it plunged and reconnected with the rest of his insides. Despite her earlier denials, Lola now somehow managed more speed out of the dirigible, although it wouldn’t be anywhere near fast enough to outrun a helicopter.

“How is this helping?” he shouted, cringing as they began weaving through the taller buildings.

Her fingers flew over the tablet. “They’re hailing us. And I’m sending back a suitably reassuring reply.”

Whatever she had typed seemed to do the trick. The helicopter banked sharply and flew off, growing smaller as it headed north. It was just as well, because Lola became busy for the next few minutes navigating the maze of buildings that blocked their way. In between his paralyzing terror, Mike had to feel a small portion of amusement at the people in windows who waved at them as they passed.

“Where are we going?” he asked again, once Lola seemed to have things under control.

She spared him a tight smile. “The People’s Free Republic of Flatbush.”

“The what, now?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but as she steered around the last building, the view cleared and the familiar suspension cables and buttressed granite towers of the Brooklyn Bridge appeared ahead of them. If they didn’t veer, or gain some altitude, they would fly right straight into the middle tower. It looked to Mike like the bridge had been blocked. The usual heavy traffic was absent, and the flashing lights of government vehicles were visible at the end closest to them.

“Better pull up,” he suggested.

“If I do that, I can’t keep blocking the drones. Do you really want to get that pretty face of yours on the news right now?”

“Then go around.”

“I can’t. There are ‘copters closing in on both sides.”

They were low enough, that Mike could hear the voice of authority projected from below through an electronic megaphone. “State your call letters,” the voice demanded.

“Well?” Mike waited, but Lola was bent over the tablet, tapping away. “I wouldn’t put it past them to shoot us out of the sky. What are the fucking call letters?”

“I don’t know,” she ground out. “I’m searching.”

A helicopter broke formation and buzzed straight at them. “Lola….”

“Shut. Up.”

As the helicopter grew close, Lola tossed the tablet away in frustration and grabbed the controls. The dirigible angled upwards, but didn’t gain any speed. Mike gripped the side of the gondola, eyes darting between the pursuing helicopter and the too quickly approaching granite tower. “Get up…get up….” he murmured.

As if the helicopter and bridge weren’t distraction enough, a small swarm of camera drones suddenly zipped in from the Manhattan side of the bridge. Lola must have lost her wi-fi.

They might have made it, if Lola could have increased the angle of their ascent, or if the drones and helicopter hadn’t effectively corralled them into a direct line with the bridge. Mike didn’t even realize that he was screaming wordlessly as they started to pass over the top of the tower. The nose of the gondola just nicked the tower, even as they rose further, and seconds later the bottom of the gondola scraped over the rough granite surface. Mike and Lola could only watch helplessly as the flimsy floor beneath them peeled open, revealing a long drop to the bridge deck.

Lola was the first to climb up on the thin edge of the basket, and Mike immediately copied her, balancing on the other side and holding onto the cables connecting the gondola to the balloon structure. The airship continued to move forward, and came tantalizing close to clearing the support tower, when they heard a grating, grinding crash and the entire airship gave a sickening shudder that almost shook them loose from their mirror-image precarious perches.

“Shit. The fucking propeller is caught,” said Lola unnecessarily. “We’re stuck.”

At least they weren’t plunging onto the bridge below, or into the East River, thought Mike a little hysterically. The camera drones swooped in, recording their predicament, probably broadcasting their terrified faces to the entire world. Mike held on for dear life, expecting their craft to be boarded at any moment, expecting to be taken into government custody, and unsure whether that would be better or worse than being returned to Orsini.

When Lola began to climb the cables to the balloon structure, Mike could only gape in shock. What could she hope to accomplish up there? The dirigible dipped and shifted with her movements, but seemed, at least for the moment, to be securely trapped against the bridge tower. One drone hovered near Mike’s face. He wanted to swat it like a mosquito, but was too frightened to let go of the cable. How was Lola managing to climb like that, with nothing below her but certain death?

Cursing himself for a coward, he shut his eyes and clung. He heard a helicopter approach, felt the dirigible shift under the downward rush of wind from the ‘copter blades, and cringed at the booming order to remain still and submit. He only hoped Lola was listening to that order and taking it to heart.

That hope was dashed a minute later when he heard the blast of a high-powered rifle, and felt the balloon bob upwards half an inch. He opened his eyes just in time to see Lola’s body drop past him, a red hole blossoming like a flower in the center of her forehead, one hand still clutching a crudely lettered banner proclaiming, “Freedom for All,” which fluttered behind her, as useless and heartbreaking as a broken wing.

 

******

 

Harvey woke at dawn. His lower back ached from another night spent on the couch and he decided that it would be best for both of them if he let Donna return home today. Things appeared to have calmed down in Manhattan, if not in the rest of New York, or the rest of the empire.

He took a quick shower in an unsuccessful effort to feel more human, and entered his bedroom to grab some clothes, bath towel wrapped around his hips.

A low wolf whistle sounded behind him, followed by delicate coughing and an agonized groan.

“I’m going to make some coffee,” he told Donna. “If you don’t expire in the next five minutes, feel free to come out and join me for breakfast.”

“Bleh,” was her only response.

On his way to the kitchen, Harvey tossed the towel on the bathroom floor. He dressed in front of the television while coffee brewed in the kitchen. According to the government networks, the empire was holding together just fine, with all resistance to established order being quickly stamped out. _Brutally smothered,_ he mentally corrected.

The morning shows, all chirpy enthusiasm, lacquered hair and alarming spray tans, rhapsodized about how citizens were pulling together in these trying times, highlighting the group in Prospect Park that had been burned out of their homes. Their spin on the situation struck Harvey as particularly bizarre, since the “People’s Free Republic of Flatbush,” flag still flew in prominent view of the cameras, and the expressions on the faces of the refugees were clearly more “murderous” than “plucky.”

His attention drifted as he thought of the bombshell Vanessa had dropped on him the night before. To assist his thought processes, he dug out a legal pad and a pen and began jotting down possible strategies for leveraging his knowledge about Orsini into some way to safely free Mike.

Sudden, rhythmically dramatic music erupted from the television, drawing his gaze back to the screen.

“We’re going live,” said the wide-eyed blonde, “to a developing situation over the still closed Brooklyn Bridge.” She held one finger to her earpiece. “I’m being told that rebel terrorists have somehow gained possession of Deputy Proconsul Orsini’s pleasure dirigible, and have flown it into restricted airspace.”

He nearly choked on his coffee. “Donna!” he called. “You’ve got to see this.”

She staggered out of the bathroom, wrapped in his bathrobe, squinting against the light. “Fuck. Why is your voice so….stabby?”

He moved over and made room for her on the couch, not commenting when she appropriated his coffee. “Looks like someone stole your brilliant idea.”

“Which one?” She swiped a tangled clump of hair from her face. “I have so many of them.”

“Just look. They’re saying someone’s taken that dirigible for a joyride.”

She _tsk’d_. “Unruly children.”

“No. Terrorists, or so they would have us believe. Uh oh, here come the cops.”

“Huh. Cops in ‘copters. ‘Copter cops.” She sipped Harvey’s coffee. “You forgot to put any booze in this.”

“Sounds to me like you haven’t sobered up yet from last night.” He was looking at her, and saw the sudden alarm on her face, wiping away any levity.

“Oh shit.” She sat up straighter. “That blimp’s a little low, right?”

Harvey turned back to the television. “Yep. Looks like they’re adjusting. Just a little higher….Ah, nope. Ouch.”

Harvey and Donna both winced as the dirigible struck the top of the center tower on the bridge. Camera drones swarmed it, and their microphones caught the screeching, rending sound of the gondola being ripped open. When it looked as if they might clear the bridge after all, the propellers got hung up in the center suspension cables and the entire airship came to a shuddering halt.

Two figures balanced on opposite edges of the gondola, clutching the cables which attached the basket to the upper oblong balloon.

Just as Harvey was thinking that was it, and that the two hijackers would now be taken into custody, one of them began to climb the side of the balloon structure, pulling herself up, hand over hand. Several drones hovered just feet away, and the screen showed a close-up of her ascent. She looked young, perhaps in her early twenties, with attractive yet serious features, dark hair blowing wildly in the wind. The resolution was sharp enough that he could even see her bare feet and pale legs, and her black dress which stood out in sharp contrast against the pale cream background of the balloon.

When against all odds, she made it to the top of the balloon, the young woman stood tall and proud, and pulled a rolled up cloth from under her white sweater. As the nearest helicopter lowered to her level, about ten feet away, she shook out the cloth and held it over her head in both hands, turning in a tight circle on top of the bobbing balloon.

Harvey’s breath caught at the audacity of the message, “Freedom for All,” so blunt and simple and fearless and impossible, and broadcast live to the hundreds of millions of viewers who were huddled at home, waiting impatiently for the government to restore the status quo of “Freedom for a Few.”

“Wow,” he heard Donna utter, awe and admiration clear in her voice.

Moments later, the sound of a gunshot exploded over the airwaves. The woman continued to stand for a split second longer, a dot of red marring her pale forehead, and then like a puppet with its strings cut, she collapsed, rolled once, and slid off the side of the airship, her sign trailing behind her.

Some quick-witted producer back at the studio cut the feed before she hit the bridge deck, flipping to a different camera which had been stationed in front of the second hijacker. The extreme close-up revealed his shocked reaction. Wide blue eyes shone nearly translucent with terror, and pink lips contorted in a grief-stricken, unintelligible yell, probably the name of his comrade.

He heard Donna whisper the name his own mind supplied.

_Mike_.

He felt her reach for his hand, clutching it in a bruising grip which he barely felt. They watched, helpless and frozen, as the helicopter lowered, and the camera drone pulled back, out of the way. Out of the line of fire.

“No.” Did he say it, or did Donna? He wasn’t certain.

Slowly, one of Mike’s hands came loose from the cable, and he raised it over his head. They saw his mouth move, but the drone had moved too far away to record his voice. The centurions inside the helicopter must have heard him, however. The helicopter rose a few feet, shifted closer, and then a rope ladder was lowered to the gondola.

It took several tries for Mike to reach the ladder, but he finally made a grab and a leap, and then was dangling from the helicopter with his eyes shut. They made quick work of hauling him up and inside the helicopter. The last Harvey saw of Mike, before the station cut away, was underneath a swarm of ‘copter cops, being restrained and sedated.

He should have felt relieved, he knew, that at least Mike was alive, and wouldn’t be picked off by some hidden, unnamed sniper. He had to wonder, though, why Mike had been spared. Had Mike’s plea to the centurions been that convincing? Or had someone recognized him as the kid with the freaky brain that held knowledge that the government wanted, and needed now, more than ever. He hoped it was the former, although as soon as Mike was fingerprinted and retinal-scanned, they’d know exactly who he was.

Which was why it was important that Harvey move fast, get down there and demand to see his client. More than that, he needed to find some way to regain custody. Because once the imperial inquisitors began their work on Mike, there wouldn’t be much left of him to rescue.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much unpleasantness for Mike in this chapter.

Mike was not allowed the opportunity to come fully awake before something slammed hard into his belly. Not a fist, he judged, even as he struggled to catch his breath and clear his head.

He would have preferred to go back to sleep and remain blissfully unaware of what was in store for him. A sharp zap of electricity to his ribs, followed by a forceful slap to the face, made that an impossibility.

He opened his eyes, and found himself in what looked strikingly similar to a standard doctor’s exam room, although the exam table had been folded up and out of the way against one wall. Against the opposite wall, Mike was strung up by his wrists, arms stretched above his head and secured by pressure cuffs. He couldn't move his head, but a shift of his gaze downward revealed similar cuffs at his ankles.

He'd played with pressure cuffs once, and associated them with more enjoyable pursuits. A lover in Wichita had shown him how the more he fought to get free, the tighter the cuffs became. They could only be released by tapping a four-digit code into a remote control device.

He could only assume that these cuffs worked the same way. It was difficult not to struggle and yank on the cuffs when he saw the masked inquisitor cock the truncheon he held like baseball bat, and swing away, right into Mike's ribs.

Mike closed his eyes and clenched his jaw to prevent himself from screaming, which turned out to be unnecessary, since he had a metal device wrapped around his head and inserted into his mouth, holding his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and effectively blocking any sound which might have emerged.

Opening his eyes again, he discovered the inquisitor scanning him with a device similar to the one he'd found in Harvey's bedroom. When he finished, he turned to a tablet which was attach by Velcro straps to an adjustable metal arm, and presumably recorded whatever the scan had picked up.

"Minimal bruising." The inquisitor's voice was projected electronically through his mask, giving it a tinny, robotic quality. Mike supposed this was meant to intimidate, as was the mask itself, which was simply a black, featureless face made of some kind of hard plastic that reflected the bright overhead lights. The man's clothing consisted of a white lab coat and a long, grey apron that looked like plastic, and was probably designed for easy removal of blood.

"Subject is relatively young," continued the inquisitor. "Bone strength test number one." Without any further warning, the truncheon whipped in from the side to smash into Mike's knee, sending a blast of pain up his entire body and momentarily greying his vision.

Another scan followed, and more entries into the tablet.

It was strange, Mike reflected through a building haze of pain, as the beating and clinical entries and observations continued: somehow, he'd always expected needles and scalpels and sophisticated psychological tortures from professionally trained, board-certified inquisitors. As it turned out, they weren't above a little blunt trauma as well.

 

During his years as a fugitive, Mike had been involved in his fair share of fights, almost never of his own choosing, which more often than not ended with him on the losing end of things. He had also been jumped, mugged, beaten, and beat down, sometimes for his cash or possessions, sometimes out of drunken rage, sometimes for no discernible reason. All of those experiences had started and ended quickly, too sudden and surprising for fear, which only arrived after the fact, along with the inevitable rush of adrenaline.

The beating dealt out to him now was like none of those experiences. His injuries and reactions had certainly never been recorded and commented on as if he was no more than a subject to be studied, and not a flesh and blood human being. No questions were asked. He couldn't have confessed anything even if he'd wanted to, gagged as he was. His limits, he began to understand, were being tested and catalogued, and as this realization sank in, his fear receded, and his anger swelled.

During the moments when the pain became nearly unbearable, he rode it out by picturing Lola with her banner, falling through the chill morning air, defiant to the last breath. He stiffened his resolve, refusing to cry, or to flinch, or even to look away. Each time the inquisitor approached to apply his heavy gloved fists or his truncheon to another part of Mike's body, Mike glared back at him, putting all of the hatred and scorn that he felt into his eyes.

After what seemed like hours of punishment, but couldn't have been that long, there was a pause in the proceedings. Panting, Mike forced himself to stand straight, and not give the pressure cuffs a reason to squeeze his hands and feet into numbness. His entire body throbbed, and he could feel the warm slide of blood from his nose, down his chin and neck.

Through one eye -- the other was swollen shut -- Mike watched the inquisitor tap rapidly on the tablet for several minutes. Then the man opened the door and stuck his head out.

"Yes, sir," Mike heard him say. "I've completed the analysis. His profile is compiling now."

The inquisitor took a seat in a chair next to the door and crossed his legs, appearing slightly bored, but as if he had all the time in the world to wait. Because of his mask, Mike couldn't tell if he was looking back at Mike or somewhere else.

During the lull, Mike distracted himself by taking the opportunity to marshal his thoughts and work out his options. Although not even one question had yet to be posed to him, he had to assume that the goal was to get him to talk about the rebels, to remember everything he'd seen and heard, identify every individual he had encountered.

He couldn't predict how he would hold up once the real fun began -- and he didn't delude himself that this, so far, had only been a warm-up. He wanted to believe that he would be brave enough and strong enough to keep quiet, but he knew that realistically, everyone had their breaking point.

What they didn't realize yet, was that thanks to Lola, Mike had an ace up his sleeve. He only had to hold out until they ungagged him long enough to play that card.

His nerve endings and pain receptors had finally calmed down, the respite having given them the illusion that the worst was over. His intellect knew better. His fears were confirmed when the door opened and an older man entered. Like the first, he wore a long lab coat and plastic apron. However, rather than a mask, he wore safety goggles. He was tall and thin, and looked like he could use a good, home-cooked meal.

With the air of someone with little time to spare, he walked up to the tablet and examined the screen, tapping and scrolling and nodding every so often at what he saw. At one point, he raised his eyebrows and shot Mike a searching look. When he’d finished reading Mike’s profile, if that’s what it was, he grabbed a pair of latex gloves from a box on the counter near the sink, and pulled them on with a noisy series of snaps.

“We’ll begin with a full dose of SP-12,” he murmured to the masked inquisitor.

Mike had no idea what SP-12 was, and watched the man anxiously as he reached into an overhead cupboard and withdrew a wrapped syringe and a vial of some milky liquid.

The older man turned to Mike and spoke in a dry, conversational tone. “I arrived this morning thinking it would be another routine day. I had barely stepped through the door when I was informed that a high priority subject had arrived, and I had to shift all of my other interrogations around to accommodate you.” He shook his head. “Normally I detest last minute schedule changes, but the analysis my apprentice has just completed tells me that you are a special case in more ways than one. I haven’t seen a pain profile like yours since university. They’d had that one for over two months already. No one could break her. I managed it though. Only took me six hours.”

He smiled and turned to rummage through a drawer which Mike couldn’t see. “That interrogation made my career. People still talk about it.” Moments later, he turned around, holding a large number of thin metal rods in one hand, rather like a flowerless, stainless steel bouquet. He pulled a small table closer and arranged the rods in a neat row on it. One end of each rod appeared to be wickedly sharp.

The apprentice inquisitor handed the chief inquisitor the syringe that he had prepared.

“SP-12,” the inquisitor explained, “is a special concoction of mine. Took me decades of trial and error to perfect it. It’s a synthetic pain magnifier, hyper-sensitizing the nerve endings while overloading the neural pain receptors to an almost unimaginable degree.”

He moved closer to Mike and injected the SP-12 into his arm, and it entered his veins in a cold rush.

“That will take a few minutes to kick in.” The inquisitor handed the syringe back to his apprenticeship, who slipped it into a medical waste container. Picking up one of the thin metal rods, the inquisitor showed it to Mike.

“Have you ever tried acupuncture, young man? These are similar to acupuncture needles, but noticeably thicker. If inserted properly, and located correctly, they’ll do little permanent damage. Combined with the SP-12, and placed for maximum discomfort, these little beauties will have most subjects screaming out their entire life history within minutes. I suspect these will hardly make a dent in your resolve, but – and here I differ from many of my colleagues – I would prefer to leave you in some semblance of working order when we’re done here, so we’ll start out on the lower end of the spectrum. Kindly keep in mind that until you tell me everything I want to know, the pain will continue, and it will get worse the longer this goes on.”

Once more, he turned to his apprentice. “I’d like to have two more doses ready and on hand at all times. I’m afraid we may be working through our lunch hour with this one.” He suddenly paused and slapped one hand to his forehead, giving a dry laugh. “Oh my goodness, I nearly forgot. Remove the subject’s gag, please.”

When the apprentice had done as requested, Mike worked his jaw in an attempt to loosen it up. He opened his mouth up to speak, but the inquisitor held up a finger, silencing him. “Before you say anything, let’s make this official. Kevin, please turn on the recorder.”

As Kevin complied, the inquisitor cleared his throat. “Subject slave Mike, formerly Ross, CIN as previously scanned. This will be interrogation number fourteen dash one eight four seven. Present are the subject, Apprentice Kevin Caldwell, and myself, Grand High Inquisitor Clifford Offerman. Counsel for the subject, Advocate Specter, has requested closed circuit observation, which has been granted. Mike, before we begin, do you have anything to confess?”

The mention of Harvey, somewhere in the building watching what was happening, threw Mike for a second, but he put it determinedly out of his mind, because now was his chance to make his play and he had to get it right. He could already feel the drug working its way through him, awakening his nerve endings, slowly ramping up his discomfort. “I—I have a statement.”

He could have sworn that Offerman looked disappointed. “Go ahead,” said the inquisitor with exaggerated patience.

Mike swallowed thickly, trying to work more moisture into his mouth. “I want to give my statement to the proconsul.”

Heavy silence fell for a few seconds. “I beg your pardon,” said Offerman.

“I need to speak to Proconsul Getty. Only to him. I know…I have news about his daughter.”

Offerman was already shaking his head, already motioning for Kevin to replace Mike’s gag. “I’m telling the truth,” he ground out, twisting his head to the side. He managed to evade Kevin long enough to get out, “Carlotta. I have news about Carlotta.”

And then cold metal trapped his tongue and held his jaw immobile. He only just remembered not to struggle against the cuffs. Remaining still became a problem when Offerman stepped closer, holding up the first needle, shaking his head as if at the antics of a naughty child.

“Everyone thinks they can talk their way out of this at first. As stories go, yours is creative, but not in particularly good taste, considering what that poor man has suffered. Now, we’ll go for half an hour, and then you’ll get another chance to confess. Kevin? Please note this on the chart: I’m inserting the first needle beneath the subject’s right clavicle.”

 

******

 

Donna wanted to accompany Harvey to the detention center, but he insisted she head to the office instead. Jessica had reopened the firm's doors, and Harvey needed Donna on hand to deal with worried clients and relay any urgent matters to him.

A quiet and subdued Ray picked them up about an hour after Mike's arrest, dropping Donna off first, and then delivering Harvey to the detention center. The full, official name of the building was the Advanced Detention and Interrogation Center, but most people referred to it as ADIC. It had gone up during a brief, ill-considered baroque revival in the mid-seventies, and was every bit as overly ornate as most architecture of that period tended to be.

Harvey pushed through the fake verdigris doors and stepped up to the front desk. He'd been here before, and he knew the routine. He flashed his identification and stated his intent to file a motion to see his client. The clerk handed him a clipboard with a stack of paperwork to fill out, and he took a seat in the already crowded waiting area.

He powered through the forms, handed them to the clerk, and surprisingly, his name was announced over the loudspeakers only twenty minutes later. He was ushered into the cramped, utilitarian office of Assistant Imperial Prosecutor Arroyo.

“Advocate Specter,” said the young man, nodding toward one of the chairs wedged in front of his cluttered desk, “I was astonished to see your name pop up on my motions calendar.” He picked up a piece of official looking paper from his desk. “Then I saw who you represent, and it made more sense, although I can’t see why anyone, least of all a successful corporate advocate such as yourself, would want to associate their name with an enemy of the empire.” He leaned back in his chair, giving Harvey what he probably believed was a challenging look.

“First of all,” said Harvey, taking a seat, “Mike is not an enemy of the empire.”

Arroyo gave him a condescending smile. “He hijacked a public official’s personal property and used it to inflict damage to part of the empire’s transportation infrastructure.”

Harvey rolled his eyes. “He was held against his will, escaped in a blimp, flew too low, and barely scratched a well-worn monument from another century. See what I did there? It’s all in how you phrase it, isn’t it?”

Arroyo, looked a little less certain, but did not appear prepared to give up any ground. “I fail to see how you can know that the slave was held against his will. Until we’ve had a chance to thoroughly question him….”

“He’s my indenture. Someone took advantage of the new law and grabbed him the night it took effect.” It was on the tip of his tongue to mention who had taken Mike, but he possessed no hard evidence, plus he wasn’t sure whether or not that would land Mike in more trouble, corruption in government being what it was.

Narrowing his eyes as if he had seen an opening, Arroyo leaned forward. “You didn’t have him safely secured at home? That’s wasn’t terribly responsible of you was it?”

Harvey didn’t have an answer to that. Except that he knew it hadn’t been responsible, _he_ hadn’t been responsible where Mike was concerned. He’d ignored the warnings Scottie gave him and allowed his disdain for politics and politicians to blind him to the growing danger until it was too late. He forcibly pushed all of those misgivings away. He had to think like an advocate now.

“Look, if you intend to have Mike questioned, I would like to be present.”

“Come on, Specter, you know very well that you can’t be allowed to interfere with an official interrogation.”

He did know that, but it had been worth a shot. There was another option which didn’t appeal to him much, but it was probably the best deal he could get. “I would like to observe the questioning, then. And before you say anything, you know as well as I do that I’m completely within my rights here.”

Arroyo’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but he gave a short nod. “Very well. But I hope for your sake that you skipped breakfast. I got the word from the higher ups just before you arrived. Grand High Inquisitor Offerman is handling this interrogation himself.

 

Arroyo’s assistant escorted Harvey to a windowless room with a dozen plastic chairs lined up in rows and facing a large television monitor on one wall. She used the remote control to turn on the power, scrolled through the channels until she found the correct one, and adjusted the volume. Then she handed the remote to Harvey and left without a word.

He was alone in the room, and it was just as well. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone else present to witness his reaction to seeing Mike appear on the screen, cuffed to the wall, gagged, and being beaten by one of the lower level inquisitors.

Harvey wasn’t naïve or deluded. He knew what went on behind the decorative walls of ADIC. Knowing was vastly different than seeing a live interrogation in progress. And really, could it even be called an interrogation when the subject wasn’t allowed the opportunity to speak?

Frowning, he stood and paced up and down for a few minutes. He checked his phone, thought about calling Donna to see how things fared at the office, but knew that his voice would betray his agitation. Finally, he forced himself to sit, and to bear witness to Mike’s pain. It was the least that he owed him.

Harvey had sparred in the boxing ring often enough to know exactly how it felt to be struck in the ribs, or across the cheek, and so he winced in sympathy with each blow, even as a small part of him experienced warm pride at the stoic manner in which Mike endured his beating. Mike could only communicate with his eyes, but they did a more than adequate job of conveying his anger.

Harvey couldn’t be sure how long it had been going on, but fifteen minutes after he arrived in the observation room, the inquisitor had quiet words with someone outside of the room, and then took a seat to wait. Harvey was almost holding his breath as he waited for Offerman to make an appearance. He’d heard of the man, of course. He had worked his way up through the ranks in a record amount of time, and had held the rank of Grand High Inquisitor for close to twenty years. He only worked on the highest level cases now, or where no one else had been successful in breaking a subject.

It seemed a complete travesty to Harvey that someone like Offerman should be set loose on Mike, but the decision was in keeping with current administration’s general policy of overkill.

Turning up the volume, Harvey listened with both interest and growing revulsion to Offerman’s words to Mike. The dry, matter-of-fact speech was undoubtedly designed to play upon the victim’s psyche in some insidious manner. Mike did appear less certain, his eyes darting around, following Offerman’s every movement.

When Offerman finally had his assistant remove Mike’s gag, and Harvey heard what his indenture had to say, he felt as much skepticism as the inquisitor expressed.

Half an hour later, thin trickles of blood ran down Mike’s pale body, mixing with his sweat. The gag was removed once more, unleashing the last agonized groan which Mike had been forced to swallow. When the inquisitor posed his questions, Harvey listened, troubled, as Mike repeated his claims about Proconsul Getty’s missing daughter.

Just as before, Offerman scoffed at the story. He allowed Mike a small drink of water, injected a second of syringe of his synthetic pain drug, and continued the process of turning Mike into a human pin cushion.

 

During the next half hour session, there came a point when Harvey simply could not watch any longer. He resumed his restless pacing, musing disjointedly on how many others had come through the doors of ADIC and endured what Mike was now going through. Had the empire been made any safer through all of this suffering? He didn’t know, but he could feel a seismic shift beginning in his way of thinking.

Focus on Mike, he urged himself. It wasn’t an easy task, though. Helplessness such as he’d never felt before made him lightheaded. It felt as if hours had passed, and if it felt like that for him, here in the observation room, what must it feel like for Mike? He cursed and struggled against the need to hit and throw things. Mike was suffering, and all Harvey could accomplish was to pace and wallow in impotent rage.

Eventually, his expensive watch limped its way to the half hour, and Mike’s gag was again removed. This time, he hung limply in his bonds, eyes glazed, and a thin string of drool trailing down his chin. The inquisitor’s apprentice stepped in with a wet-vac to wash the dribbles of blood from the white tiled floor.

“Do you have anything you would like to confess?” Offerman asked, voice soft and almost kind.

Mike’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to speak up.”

With an effort that seemed to Harvey almost heroic, Mike lifted his head and said, voice clear but shaky, “I want to speak to Proconsul Getty. I have news about his daughter, Carlotta. And you – ” He paused to cough and spit a gob of something onto the floor. “You can go fuck yourself.”

Pride, dismay, and uncertainty fought it out inside of Harvey. Even from where he stood, he could see the flicker of annoyance in Offerman’s eyes and the grim set of his mouth. Harvey suspected that the next half hour would be even less pleasant than the last, especially when another dose of the drug was administered.

There was something though…something in the absolute conviction of Mike’s words that had gotten through to Harvey this time. Mike believed in his own words. Could it be true? Had he learned something about Carlotta Getty?

Judging from Offerman’s reaction, Harvey guessed that he would never pass Mike’s request on to anyone of higher rank, much less the proconsul himself. Maybe there was something Harvey could do, though, because he remembered what Donna had mentioned in passing not that long ago. He stepped outside the room and dialed his phone.

“Louis? I need a favor from you.”

“Harvey, where the hells are you? Complete madness has descended here. Our clients are losing their shit left and right. Half of them are demanding we send the bulk of their liquid assets out of the empire, and the rest are looking to secure travel permits to Canada or Madagascar. _Madagascar_ , Harvey. Jessica has spent the morning trying to keep everyone calm. Norma slapped a Hilton. And Donna has been no help at all. She’s holed up in your office with her cell phone glued to her ear. No one knows what she’s up to.”

“Louis. Shut up for a second. This is urgent.”

“Everything is always urgent with you.”

Agitated, Harvey rubbed his forehead. “Just tell me one thing. Do you or do you not know Proconsul Getty?”

A brief silence fell. Then Louis’s voice returned, sounding cagey. “Why do you ask?”

Harvey breathed out slowly, reminding himself that he needed Louis right now. “Donna says you have a box next to his at the Met.” He could imagine Louis biting his upper lip and darting his eyes back and forth.

“That’s confidential.”

“Louis, it’s a public venue.”

Louis hummed softly. “I may have spoken to him once or twice. I like to cultivate relationships. I’m a cultivator.”

“Well, that’s wonderful, Farmer Litt,” Harvey grated, and then caught himself. He softened his tone. “What I mean to say is, I need to contact him.”

“Contact the proconsul?”

“Yes, Louis. A…friend of mine is in trouble.”

“And you want me to use my influence with the man to help your friend? I’m sorry, Harvey, but my influence is too precious to squander. Maybe if you’d ever bothered to schmooze a little, you’d have some influence of your own saved up.”

“What do you want, Louis?”

“Pardon me?”

Harvey leaned against the wall, eyes shut. “I said, what do you want? In return for the proconsul’s private number. Just name it. Anything you want that’s within my power to give is yours.”

Louis was quiet, probably thinking it over. “What makes you think I even have his number?”

“Don’t fucking waste my time, Louis.” He’d started yelling, and abruptly lowered his voice to a whisper as two masked inquisitors walked past, deep in conversation. “If you don’t have it, I’ll get it somewhere else. Just… _please tell me._ ”

There was another agonizingly long silence on the other end of the line. “Of course I have it. And what I want is to be made a senior advocate.”

Harvey had been expecting some ridiculous, unattainable request, and so felt relieved at what Louis had asked for. He and Jessica had even discussed this not long ago, and he knew that Lois was already under serious consideration. “Done.”

“Done? Just like that? How do I know you’ll follow through on this?”

“Louis,” he stated solemnly, “you have my word. And you know my word is gold.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Harvey could almost hear the other man’s pleased grin through the phone. “Do you have a pen?”

Harvey pulled a pen and one of his business cards from his pocket, and wrote down the number Louis rattled off. “Thanks, Louis. I won’t forget this.”

“You better believe you won’t. I’m going to want to hear – ”

Louis was still speed-talking when Harvey hung up on him. He took a few deep breaths to compose himself, and then dialed the number Louis had given him.


	21. Chapter 21

"I can give you five minutes, Advocate Specter, but no more. This is the worst possible time...." Proconsul Getty trailed off, as if the mere act of speaking had tired him out, and he leaned back in his chair.

Harvey had seen televised images of the proconsul, but in person he looked surprisingly...small. Was this really one of the most powerful people in the empire, second only to the emperor himself? His grey suit hung badly from thin shoulders, and was creased with wrinkles, as if he hadn't changed his clothes in days. Gold framed glassed perched crookedly on a pointy nose, and his dark blond hair was thinning on top. He looked both exhausted and irritated.

"I understand," Harvey said smoothly, seating himself on the other side of Getty's ornate desk. "It’s been a rough few days for everyone. May I make a suggestion, though? You should probably turn off any listening and recording devices before we get started."

Getty sighed. "Margaret hates it when I do that." He nodded towards the closed door, indicating the woman who had ushered Harvey in moments earlier. "Woman thinks she's entitled to know all of my business."

Harvey could sympathize. He remained silent while Getty rifled through a desk drawer for a square metal box the size of a child’s letter block, which Harvey recognized as a signal jammer. After placing the box on top of the desk, Getty switched it on.

"All right, that's as private as it gets. What's on your mind?"

The one thing dominating Harvey's thoughts was Mike, who remained across the street, his interrogation still in progress. Harvey knew he had to set aside his gnawing worry and concentrate on convincing Getty to intercede. Trying to appear relaxed, he said, "There is currently a prisoner in an active interrogation who I believe you should speak to personally."

At least Getty didn't laugh at him outright, or call for security to remove him. He merely squinted and asked, "Why?"

"Because he possesses information regarding your daughter Carlotta." Harvey had only Mike's word that this was true, but he believed him. At the very least, he had to convince Getty that Mike was credible.

Getty went visibly paler, his eyebrows drawing down in confusion. "Carlotta? That's...how...who is he? Who is claiming this?"

"He was one of the two people that stole Orsini's dirigible and crashed it into the Brooklyn Bridge this morning."

It took Getty a few seconds to process this. His face clearly showed all of the emotions that washed through him -- shock, disbelief, anger. "Those terrorists, you mean? Did they kidnap Carlotta? Why didn't someone from ADIC inform me already? Gods damned Arroyo should have told me himself. I’ll kick his sorry ass from here to Hades." He picked up his phone, preparing to dial.

"Wait," Harvey said sharply, and then took a breath and forced himself to speak calmly when Getty glared at him. "That might not be the best move. Let me give you some background first."

Getty didn't look happy, but he hung up the phone and gave a short nod, indicating that Harvey should continue.

"Mike -- that's his name -- is both my indenture and my client. The night the new slave law went into effect, someone abducted him. I believe that he and the woman took the airship as a means of escape." Until he spoke those words out loud, Harvey hadn't acknowledged to himself how proud he was of Mike for find his own way out. He kept that to himself, however.

"But...Orsini's airship?" Getty looked baffled, tapping his fingers on the desktop. "I don’t understand. What are you suggesting?"

Harvey forced himself to speak slowly and carefully, all too aware that he had only one chance to state his case. "I have reliable information that Deputy Proconsul Orsini's people took Mike. I think you can guess why. We're both aware of Orsini's...appetites."

Getty stared down at his own hands, eyes wide and fixed. "And this young man," he said slowly, voice vibrating with suppressed rage, "saw my daughter? With Orsini?"

"I don't know the answer to that. All I can tell you is that your grand high inquisitor is asking him the wrong questions. Mike has asked repeatedly to speak to you, and has been ignored."

"To me? How do I know this isn’t some trick? What if he's lying?"

"And what if," said Harvey, "he's not? If I were you, I wouldn’t want to take that chance. I strongly suggest that you inform your assistant you're breaking for lunch, and take a walk across the street with me to find out. And I highly recommend that you keep this as quiet as possible for the moment, because if Orsini does have your daughter, you’ll need to move on him before he becomes aware that you know. He could deny everything and move her to another location – or worse."

Getty was quiet for several minutes this time. Harvey grew twitchy with impatience waiting for the other man to come to a decision.

Finally, Getty switched off the signal jammer and spoke, as if to thin air. "Margaret, please call Arroyo and have him suspend the interrogation Offerman is conducting."

"What, that terrorist?" the thin air replied.

"How did you – never mind. Yes. The terrorist. Tell Arroyo to halt the interrogation, get the kid cleaned up and comfortable, and make it quick. But – and this is important, dear – don't let on that the order came from me. Just make something up. Do that…thing you do. Got all that?"

"Of course, sir."

"Oh, and I'm stepping out for some lunch."

"That's not necessary, sir. I'll order in for you just like I always do."

He sighed and gave Harvey a mournful look, which made him want to laugh, despite the urgency that roiled inside of him.

"I’m sure you’ll do whatever you like, Margaret. Nonetheless, I'm going to get some air." He stood up and nodded to Harvey. "Let's go."

Two bodyguards fell in behind Harvey and the proconsul as they exited the administration building. After a cursory glance up and down the street, Getty jaywalked, entourage in tow. Fortunately, traffic was light, with much of the population remaining home, evidently keeping a wait-and-see attitude towards current events.

The effect of Getty’s appearance inside the walls of ADIC was dramatic, to say the least. The clerk gaped, speechless for a few seconds, before sputtering words of greeting and then buzzing them through a door into the hallway that led to Arroyo’s office. As if something had occurred to him, Getty whirled suddenly and shoved past his bodyguards and back to the door. He cracked it open and Harvey heard him growl, “This visit is entirely off the books. Understand? Good man.”

They proceeded down the hall. Apparently having already been informed of their arrival, Arroyo strode towards them, looking equal parts pissed off and confused. “Sir, Offerman is not happy.”

“Good. He’s going to be even less happy when I’m through with him. Where is he now?”

“I’m not sure. In his office, I suppose.”

“You.” Getty pointed at one of his bodyguards. “Clark?” The man shook his head. “Right. Sorry. Mayhew? Good, good. I want you to go find Offerman and watch him. Make sure he doesn’t make any calls in or out, or speak to anyone here in the building. Handcuff him if you have to.”

The tall, muscular, gun-toting professional bodyguard blanched at the order. “Offerman?” he squeaked. “You want me to detain Grand High Inquisitor Offerman?”

“He’s only a man,” Getty assured him, giving Harvey an amused glance, “not some supernatural being. He bleeds, just like anyone else. In fact, go ahead and shoot him in the leg if that will set your mind at ease. You have my permission.”

Still looking uncertain, Mayhew muttered, “Yes sir,” and disappeared down an intersecting hallway.

A brief silence fell. “Well?” prompted Getty, cocking an eyebrow at Arroyo. “The prisoner? Where is he?”

If possible, Arroyo looked even more scandalized now. “You can’t mean to speak to him yourself, sir.”

“Can’t I?”

“It’s unprecedented, highly irregular, and just a really, really bad idea. Sir.”

“Thank you. Your objections are duly noted. Now let’s move it. My assistant becomes highly unpredictable when I’m away from my office for too long.”

In spite of himself, Harvey was impressed by Getty’s seeming grasp of the urgency of the situation, and the need for a clandestine approach. He followed along in his wake, watching him batter through every obstacle with ease, and decided that if citizens still possessed the right to vote, Getty would have his for the foreseeable future.

They stopped at a closed door. Arroyo placed his hand on the doorknob, and paused. “I should probably warn you that the prisoner may not be entirely responsive. He received numerous doses of Offerman’s special drug, and there hasn’t been sufficient time to flush it from his system.”

“We’ll manage,” Getty said. He placed a hand on Arroyo’s arm. “That’s fine. We’ll take it from here. You are free to return to your office. My man… _you're_ Clark, right? My man Clark will escort you to your office. I’m sure I can trust you not to speak of this for now?”

Even as Arroyo was nodding his grudging agreement, the bodyguard named Clark spoke up. “Sir, protocol dictates that at least one of us remain with you at all times.”

“I’m allowed to overrule protocol. It’s one of the perks of my job. Seriously, though, what harm do you think a restrained prisoner could cause me?” Getty turned to Arroyo. “He is restrained, correct?”

Arroyo nodded.

“There you go. Problem solved. Oh, and Clark? The bit about the handcuffs and leg shooting? Ditto with this guy. Let’s go, Specter.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fairly short chapter here, as I'm trying to keep to my weekly posting goal. We'll definitely see how Mike's doing in the next chapter. And...(counts on fingers) I guesstimate that there are three more chapters to go, give or take. 
> 
> As always, thanks to everyone who left kudos, and especially to those who took the time to leave a comment. You are all fabulous, beautiful people.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One teeny, tiny mention of needles (even though I promised there wouldn't be any more).

Mike no longer knew for sure if he was screaming into the metal gag, or if his throat muscles were merely contracting in useless spasms like the rest of his body had been doing for a while. He'd lost track of the number of doses of SP-12 that Kevin had administered to him. His entire world had narrowed down to pain -- all-consuming, unrelenting pain that invaded every cell, turning him blind and deaf, dissolving bone and flesh and muscle into a toxic soup of undiluted agony, and likely driving him towards the early stages of madness.

As the level of pain climbed, spiraling higher with no promise of relief, he imagined that it also evolved, growing and metamorphosing into something more than simple sensation. It became the place where he lived, a house crafted from blood and fire, inhabited by hellish beasts who stalked him through its shadowy rooms, sometimes snapping at him with salivating jaws, sometimes latching on and tearing into his flesh, gnawing as if possessed with insatiable hunger.

He retained a dim, fading awareness that somebody nearby wanted him to say...something, but he couldn't work out who they were, or remember what it was they wanted from him. He had no power, no hope, could only react like a mortally wounded animal, soiling himself and howling into the dark and waiting for death to release him.

 

He wasn't aware at first that it had stopped. And really, to say it stopped wasn't accurate. The pain merely stabilized, holding steady at its current level, no longer ratcheting up and up and up. Gradually, he understood that the needles were being unceremoniously plucked out, and while this should have brought relief, in truth it only served as another sharp assault on already over-sensitized nerve endings.

The gag came out, and for the first time, no questions were posed, no deathly calm voice politely requested that he spill all the secrets that pain had driven from his head. He hung from his restraints, impossibly tight now from his mindless thrashing, but at least providing a twisted sort of mercy, since he could no longer feel his hands or feet, and not feeling seemed preferable to the alternative. And then, without warning, the cuffs snapped open and he collapsed to the floor.

The impact against all of his tiny wounds, combined with a system steeped in the pain-magnifying drug, finally proved too much. He heard his screams this time, and wanted to stuff his fist in his mouth to make himself stop, but none of his limbs seemed to be working properly, and when he thrashed weakly on the ground and tried to raise up onto his knees, a rushing sound filled his ears and the world narrowed down to a pinprick of molten light and blinked out.

 

He couldn't have been out for long. When he woke again, the pain still inhabited him, or maybe he still inhabited the pain. Whatever the case, it remained, as fierce as ever. He'd been moved, though, and dressed in loose clothing that rubbed at his wounds like sandpaper. He'd been placed on his back, with his head slightly elevated, and an IV had been started. He felt the port in his arm, what should have been a neutral sensation instead throbbing and radiating hot and cold waves of pain. His hands and feet tingled, as if the feeling had only just returned to them. Again, the drug heightened the discomfort, making it nearly unbearable. Unable to stop himself, he groaned.

A face appeared in his field of vision, young, male and annoyed. "Enough already. I told you, it takes time for the suppressor to do its work. Stop whining or I'll shove the gag back in."

"Tr-tr...." It was an effort to form words. His voice was hoarse, and his face felt as if it had frozen into a rictus of agony. He kept trying, though, and finally forced the words out in a rusty rasp. "Tr-trade p-places with m-me, asshole. S-see who wh-whines."

"Oh, you still want to be feisty, huh? And what if I did this?" He lifted his arm and rammed his elbow right into Mike's mid-section.

Robbed of breath, Mike would have jack-knifed in reaction, except that he now discovered that he was strapped to a gurney at chest and hips, and his wrists were shackled to a railing along its sides. Proving that he never knew when to shut up, he wheezed once, and said with what precious breath he had left, "Fuck. You."

He'd never know what might have happened next. Based on the look in young, pale and angry's eyes, he likely would have regretted his words a great deal. However, at that moment, the door swung open and two men entered and immediately evicted the little rage-gremlin.

With difficulty, Mike focused on the first figure, a small man in a gray suit and gold-framed glasses, who looked vaguely familiar, like maybe Mike had seen pictures of him somewhere, but never met him in person. It was difficult to concentrate on anything when all he wanted was to retreat back into that blank refuge he'd visited too briefly. He closed his eyes, no longer interested in defiance, just wanting the torment _over_.

A hand tapped his face, not with any real force, but enough to send his nerve endings on another screaming ride to the top of the pain rollercoaster. "Stop," he whispered, shutting his eyes, without any real hope that anyone would listen to him.

"Mike," came an insistent voice.

"Let me try," said a second voice.

Mike squinted one eye open. That had sounded a lot like... "Harvey?" he rasped.

Harvey's face materialized. Mike's fingers twitched in his restraints. He wanted to raise his hand and touch Harvey's face, to assure himself that he was real. He grunted with his pointless efforts.

"Calm down, Mike. It's going to be okay. Look who I brought with me."

"He's...." Mike looked behind Harvey, swallowed and licked his lower lip. His mouth and throat were so dry. "He's...there's a man...." His attention wandered back to Harvey. "Wha's wrong?" He suddenly remembered, through his fog, that he'd run away from Harvey. "I'm sorry." He coughed several times and then groaned at the pain that this reawakened. "Messed up, din' I?"

"Maybe a little. It doesn't matter. Listen to me. This is important. I brought Proconsul Getty to see you."

Mike blinked slowly. "I din' tell 'em anything. S-swear."

Perhaps with the intention of comforting him, Harvey grasped Mike's shoulder and placed his other hand on his head, stroking his hair. Unfortunately, his actions had the opposite effect. Agony blasted through Mike. He arched up as much as his bonds allowed, mouth working, but making no sound. His vision greyed out with the effort of remaining silent, of not completely losing it in front of Harvey. Then Harvey gave his shoulder a shake, and that was too much. A weird keening sound burst out of him, building to an agonized wail.

Mike clamped his mouth shut, and spoke through gritted teeth. "D-don't...don't t-touch me."

Thankfully, Harvey understood him despite his roughly shaking voice, and took a step back. Mike kept his eyes shut, riding the waves of pain, breathing through them and willing them to recede. He could hear the two men murmuring back and forth, but didn't catch any words. Then he heard the door open.

Suddenly terrified that Harvey would leave him there, Mike opened his eyes. The second man, whose name Harvey had told him, but which Mike couldn't remember, had the little rage-gremlin's arm in his grip, and was pulling him back into the room.

"It's not my fault," the gremlin hissed. "He probably hadn't eaten for at least the last twenty-four hours. Offerman is always absurdly heavy-handed with his pet drug as it is, and he took this one as a personal challenge. The suppressor takes time to undo all of that."

"How much time?" demanded the man with the glasses.

"A few hours. Maybe more, considering the dosage."

_Hours?_ Another groan escaped Mike.

"And he'll continue to suffer like this?"

"Well, yes. I mean, that's what we do here. That's our job. What did you think we do? Tickle them with feathers and feed them cake?"

"What is your name?"

"My name? My name is Gordon. What are you going to do, report me? Have me fired? Good luck with that. I had three months left on my indenture contract. Three fucking months! Thanks to you, I'm stuck here until the end of time, cleaning up all the nasty messes your beloved inquisitors make.

"So, you know who I am? Good. For reasons which are none of your concern, Gordon, it is imperative that I hold a coherent conversation with this young man as soon as possible. A few hours isn't going to cut it. So tell me, is there any medical reason preventing you from giving him a healthy dose of pain relievers to lessen his suffering?"

"No," said Gordon, "there isn't. But like I said, easing suffering isn't part of the job description."

"Then I'm changing your job description, effective immediately. And if you do this thing for me, right now, no delays, I'll see to it that you get your pick of professions. Do you have access to the drug he needs?"

"Sure, but I'd have to go down to Central Supply to get it."

"Then do it. Make it back here in less than five minutes, and I might consider granting you a full pardon."

Gordon's voice was noticeably less sullen when he replied, as if not daring to hope, "You could really do that?"

"I could and I will. Just don't tell anyone who it was that requested the drug. If they ask, lie and tell them it was Offerman."

Gordon backed out the door, and moments later they could all hear his accelerating footsteps as he broke into a run down the hallway.

Mike dragged his gaze back to Harvey. He wanted to ask the name of his benefactor, along with a hundred other questions which wouldn't stay in his mind long enough to hold onto them. The two men had retreated to the far corner of the room, and were whispering back and forth in what appeared to be an argument.

"And I'm vouching for him one hundred percent," said Harvey, raising his voice. "Zeus, just look at him. Do you honestly believe he's a danger to anyone in this condition? He couldn't arm wrestle a kitten right now."

"I've already put a lot of faith in you, Specter -- probably more than is wise. So far, there's zero proof that anything you've told me is true."

"Can I at least unfasten his wrists? He'll still be strapped to the table."

The unknown man deliberated for a moment. "Fine. Go ahead."

Mike could tell that Harvey was being as gentle as he could as he unbuckled the wrist restraints and assisted Mike in raising his arms to rest at his sides on the gurney. He didn’t want to reward Harvey's kindness by howling in pain, so he kept his mouth tightly closed, and attempted to arrange it into a smile.

"Hang in there, kid," said Harvey, pulling up a rolling stool to sit beside him. "Can you understand what I'm saying?"

Mike gave a tiny nod and winced.

Harvey winced back in sympathy. "Yeah, maybe try not to move until Gordon gets back with the good stuff."

"Harvey," Mike whispered, "who is that?"

"Who, him?" Harvey jerked a thumb behind him, indicating the other man in the room. "Mike Ross, allow me to introduce Proconsul Getty."

Mike opened his mouth, maybe to correct Harvey on the use of his now defunct surname, maybe to express surprise over the identity of his visitor. Just then, though, the door swung open, signaling the return of Gordon, who skidded into the room clutching a syringe in one hand, and at least half a dozen small glass vials in the other.

"Four minutes and thirty-two seconds," he panted. He held up the vials, grinning in triumph. “Who wants some morphine?”

 

******

 

It may have been the longest fifteen minutes Harvey was forced to endure, waiting for the morphine to work its way through Mike’s system and begin to soften the edges of his pain. Watching him struggle to breathe, seeing the lines of strain on his chalky face, and how he tried so hard to hold in any betraying sounds of distress -- all of it made Harvey both angry and ill.

Getty settled himself into the only chair in the room, tapping away at his phone, while Harvey alternated between pacing and sitting on the rolling stool. Gordon had added one vial of the morphine to Mike’s IV, and had begun preparing a second one when Getty stopped him. He wanted Mike lucid, he’d insisted, and while part of Harvey felt inclined to argue for a more merciful dosage, in the end he had to agree with Getty’s reasoning.

“How soon before he feels it?” Harvey had asked. Gordon informed them it would be at least twenty minutes, and the waiting began.

At fifteen minutes, Getty, who apparently couldn’t wait any longer, glanced up from his phone. “See how he’s doing.”

So Harvey sat and rolled close to Mike’s shoulder. “Hey,” he murmured, “you still with us?”

With what looked like a herculean effort, Mike lifted his eyelids and squinted over at Harvey. His pupils had shrunk to pinpoints, presumably an effect of the morphine, making his eyes appear even bluer than usual. “Um…yeah,” he slurred. “I think so.”

“Better?”

“Maybe. Not sure. Try…try touching me again.” His voice sounded like a dry husk.

Reluctant as Harvey was to elicit a response like the one he had earlier, he could see the sense in this, so he reached over and carefully grasped Mike’s shoulder. When Mike didn’t react, he gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Ow,” rasped Mike, but with no urgency.

Harvey let go and shrugged at the proconsul. “It’s an improvement.”

Getty nodded and stood up, moving to stand next to Harvey.

Sensing the other man’s barely restrained impatience, Harvey cut in before he could start grilling Mike about his daughter. “The proconsul is here to ask you some questions.”

Mike’s dazed gaze lifted to Getty and then cut back to Harvey. He blinked a few times, and licked his lips. “Do you think I could get some water?” he asked Harvey.

When Harvey made as if to stand, Getty clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Let me,” he said, and moved to the sink, next to which was a wall-mounted paper cup dispenser. He filled a cup with cold water and walked it back over to Mike, who lifted a shaking hand to take the cup.

Mike’s hand continued its palsied shaking as he tried to lift the cup to his mouth. When water began spilling over the side, Harvey reached over to help him. He wrapped his hand around Mike’s, and was relieved when the boy only winced a little at the contact. Together, they brought the cup to Mike’s lips. Harvey couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the sight of Mike’s lips moving slightly, and his throat contracting convulsively as he swallowed. When the cup was empty, Harvey pulled it away, and used his thumb to wipe away the excess water that dripped down Mike’s chin. This time, Mike’s only reaction was a grateful smile.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice a little clearer than before.

“More?” asked Harvey, but Mike shook his head.

Now Mike focused his attention on Getty, eyes wide and wary. “You’re really the proconsul?”

“In the flesh.”

“And…you wanted to ask me something?” The confusion on Mike’s face made Harvey nervous. Had Mike only been making up the story about Getty’s daughter?

Getty’s own expression had grown hard. “Your owner – who says he also represents you as your advocate – brought me a pretty wild tale about some prisoner who claimed to have information about my daughter.”

“And….?” Mike’s eyebrows drew down as he frowned. Harvey could sense Getty’s mounting frustration, but before the proconsul had the chance to blast Harvey for wasting his time, light seemed to break across Mike’s face. He jerked forward, trying to sit straighter, and forgetting that he’d been strapped to the gurney. “Oh, _shit._ Yes. _Yes!_ Your daughter. Carlotta. I know where she is.”

Getty closed his eyes briefly, sagging as if in relief. “Go on. Tell me,” he said eagerly.

They both stared at Mike, but there was only silence from him. He had crossed his arms over his chest and seemed to be deep in thought.

“Mike?” Harvey prompted.

Finally, Mike raised his gaze to look at Getty. Face composed and serious, he asked, “Why should I tell you?”

After a moment of shock, Harvey leaned closer. “Mike, I don’t think – ”

“No, I mean it. Let's say I give him what he wants. His daughter is free. He’s filled with relief. They live a long and happy life, and the empire goes on as before. What happens to me?”

Getty’s expression had gone all the way from thunderous to measuring during Mike’s words. “You would be rewarded, of course.”

“Of course. But what about the rest of the prisoners I saw? They may not be your daughter, but a good number of them were taken illegally, like me. And what about the empire? What about the millions of people that you just screwed over with the new slave law? Am I supposed to take my reward, move on, and forget about everyone else?”

“Mike….” Harvey tried to warn him, but the boy wouldn’t take the hint.

“This morning I watched an unbelievably brave woman die in front of me – shot down by your own snipers, Proconsul – because she wouldn’t compromise her beliefs. I’m sorry about your daughter, sorry about what she’s been through, but if you want anything more from me, I want some gods damned promises from you first.” Mike stopped abruptly, grimacing as if the very sound of his own voice had reawakened his pain.

Getty was silent for long moments, staring a Mike with his pale eyes. “Precisely what are you asking for?”

Harvey held his breath. He wanted to speak for Mike, to negotiate on his behalf, but not even he was sure what Mike was thinking at that moment.

Mike drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment and exhaled. His eyes had begun to look a little glassy, and Harvey guessed that the morphine was hitting him pretty strongly by now.

“First, and most importantly,” Mike declared, “you need to repeal the new law.”

Getty’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible. Even if the Senate allowed it, which they won't, the Ancient Regime faction would crucify me.”

Mike smiled tiredly. “Don’t you even know your own laws? Not even the ones you signed yourself?”

“I strongly advise you not to play games with me, young man. Tell me straight out: to which law are you referring?”

“I don’t believe you were in favor of it at the time, even though you rubber-stamped it like everything else put in front of you. I didn’t pay much attention to politics during my time away from New York, but I remember a lot of drunken squawking about this one at the time.”

Harvey was beginning to get an inkling where Mike was going with this, and he had to hide the grin that threatened to break out on his face. “Oh, right,” he said. “I don’t remember anyone being too thrilled about that one.”

“Which one?” asked Getty, growing annoyed.

“The Repeal of Sedition Act,” Mike and Harvey said in unison.

Mike gave Harvey a quick look of surprise. Receiving a nod of encouragement from the older man, he continued, “Does this sound familiar? And I quote: ‘Upon impeachment and dismissal of a government official following indictment for acts deemed seditious and or treasonous, one of either an acting senator, deputy proconsul or proconsul shall have the power to bring action for the purpose of repealing any and all sponsored legislation related to or initiated by said individual so impeached, dismissed and indicted.’ End quote.”

“You recited that from memory."

"Yes."

"Ah. And you say I signed that?”

“You did,” Harvey affirmed.

“Ah,” Getty repeated. “And do you think…could I have that…?”

“In English?” Harvey asked. At Getty’s nod, he complied. “It means once you determine who kidnapped your daughter – which, since you’re the proconsul, can be deemed an act of treason – you have legal recourse to repeal any laws they sponsored after the kidnapping took place.”

“I see.” Getty gave Mike a shrewd look. “Very clever, young man. So, if by some coincidence, this allegedly treasonous individual turned out to be the sponsor of the new slave law….?”

“Exactly,” said Mike.

“Well, then, Mike, I believe we can do business.”

"That's good." Mike's eyes drifted shut for a few seconds, and then opened again. "There are a few other things...."

Getty sighed. "You're overestimating my power if you think I can remake the world completely to your liking. Repealing the slave law is going to use up pretty much all of the political capital I possess."

Mike shook his head tiredly. "Personal things. Simple...." He yawned hugely. "Simple for you."

Getty stepped closer, one hand hovering over Mike's shoulder, as if he wanted to give him a shake. After a moment, he shoved his hand in his pocket. "If you fall asleep on me now, you'll get nothing. But I promise you, on my word as a father, that if you provide me with the information I need to get my daughter back safely, my gratitude will have no bounds."

Mike nodded. "Okay. That's good enough for me. Deputy Proconsul Orsini has your daughter. He keeps her in the basement of his Manhattan palazzo with the rest of his prisoners and slaves. The place is under tight lock and key, guarded by his personal mercenaries. I can give you names and descriptions of all the guards, particularly the ones who I witnessed brutalizing your daughter, because I imagine you'll want to prosecute them as well."

Getty seemed to collapse in on himself at Mike's blunt words regarding his daughter. Almost immediately, he stood straight again, anger blazing in his eyes. "Thank you." He breathed the words out, voice vibrating with emotion.

It took Getty a moment to regain control of himself. When he did, he addressed Mike quietly. "I'm going to leave you for a little while. Have your advocate record the rest of your requests. I have to go organize a rescue, but as soon as I have Carlotta back, I swear that if it is within my power, I'll grant every single one of your wishes." He gave a low, humorless grunt of laughter. "If your information pans out, I'll be your own personal gods damned genie in a bottle."

With that, he was out the door. Harvey eyed Mike, debating whether they should begin compiling Mike's list immediately, or if he should allow the boy to continue his slide into what must be much needed sleep. Before he could decide, the door opened again. Gordon entered, and directed the two orderlies following him to prepare Mike's gurney for transport.

"Hold on a second," Harvey objected. "Where are you taking him?"

"Ge- That is, his last visitor's orders. He's being moved to Galen General for repairs and observation."

"Repairs?"

"Two cracked ribs. Broken femur. Fractured kneecap. Multiple puncture wounds, abrasions and hematomas."

"Well, shit," muttered Harvey. He looked at Mike with new respect, and observed that he'd finally succumbed to sleep -- or perhaps merely passed out. "I'm coming with him."

"Suit yourself. Ambulance is waiting. Let's go."

The orderlies wheeled Mike’s gurney into the hallway. Before Harvey could follow, Gordon placed a hand on his arm and Harvey raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Um,” said Gordon, not meeting Harvey’s eyes. “Could you…when he wakes up, could you tell him I’m sorry? For earlier, I mean.”

Harvey waited for more. “Care to elaborate?” he asked after short silence.

“Naw. He’ll know. If he remembers.”

“Oh, he’ll remember,” muttered Harvey as he hurried to catch up with Mike’s gurney.

The shame of it was, Mike would likely remember every single solitary little thing. Harvey shivered at the thought, as he began to realize for the first time what a burden a memory like Mike’s might become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	23. Chapter 23

Much of the next days and weeks were a blur for Mike, for which he could only be grateful. The generous doses of painkillers he received were strong enough to both dull his pain and blur his disturbing memories while he was on the receiving end of the newest in osteopathic procedures, which he had seen detailed six months earlier on a particularly gruesome episode of _NOVA_ which had given him nightmares for days afterwards.

The ribs would knit on their own with a little help from several excruciating courses of nano-proteins. Same for the tiny puncture wounds and various and sundry bruises.

The femur and kneecap were trickier. The damage to both was extensive. His doctors had opted, under Harvey's orders and Mike's reluctant permission, for replacement. The _NOVA_ episode had given Mike the rudiments of the procedure, and he read up on it in more detail later.

After Mike's skeletal system had been scanned, a 3-D printer created a model of the fractured bones, using his still intact ones as a template.   Then a super-heated "soup" of Mike's DNA along with various nutrients, proteins, liquefied calcium, and god's knew what else -- eye of newt, perhaps? -- were cured inside an autoclave for three days using a newly developed variant on the hydrothermal synthesis used to grow crystals in a lab.

The gist was, Science whipped up some new bones for him, and after a long, intricate surgery involving lasers and more of the horrifying sounding nano-proteins, he emerged whole once more. Everyone assured him that he would be better than ever.

Mike himself wasn't sure he'd ever be better, period, never mind better than ever. He felt remade in more than just the physical sense. Physically, he’d heal, and be left with a few faint, visible scars. Emotionally? He’d seen and experienced so many ugly things during his time in Orsini's basement and his hours with Offerman, he feared that if he let himself dwell on it too long, he’d devolve into one of those deranged, enraged old men who mutter to themselves in the park and shake their fists at the clouds.

The doctors and nurses and his various visitors all told him to give it time, insisting that his outlook would improve once he felt better. He wanted to believe them, but he also knew that none of them could fully understand what he’d been through.

He’d expected to be alone through all of the medical procedures and his recovery, and was surprised to emerge from his post-op fog to discover Harvey still camped out in one of the chairs in his room. Even more surprisingly, Harvey continued to stick around, and spent whole days with Mike in his hospital room, even when Mike had nothing to say to him, and slept for much of the day. It should have felt strange, having him there, but in truth it was both comfortable and comforting.

When he'd been out of surgery for a week and was becoming more alert, Donna showed up, followed the next day by Rachel (the paralegal), and Jessica, who put in a brief appearance to inform Mike that she’d agreed to all of his requests, which had been relayed to her via Harvey. Some of what she mentioned Mike couldn’t actually remember asking for, and suspected that Harvey had done a little improvising on his behalf.

Although Mike hadn't allowed any treatment to begin until he had finished listing his demands (requests) for Harvey, in the days that followed he hadn't possessed the energy or clarity of mind to give them any further thought.

He recalled now that the first thing he’d asked for was a full pardon, for himself and for Jenny as well. This had been granted, although Harvey had told him that Jenny had yet to be located. So many people had been displaced in Brooklyn after the fires that the authorities were still trying to sort things out. At least, if the news reports could be relied upon, rebuilding was well underway, helped along by a flood of donations that had poured in from all around the empire

He'd also asked for the opportunity to speak with Trevor, but he too had gone missing. Law enforcement records indicated that he’d been one of the dozens of employees taken into custody during the raid on Orsini’s palazzo, but somehow he had managed to slip free. Things in and around the city remained confused and chaotic, and it was all too easy for a person to simply disappear if they wanted to. As days and weeks slipped by with no word of him, Mike began to doubt that he’d ever see his old friend again.

The final thing he had asked for before morphine and exhaustion overtook him, was more of a whim than anything else. Feeling a floating dreaminess flood through him, he confessed his desire to become an advocate, and to have the ban against him lifted, so that he could apply for enrollment at Harvard.

He hadn't expected that particular wish to be granted, but evidently, after hearing the truth from Harvey concerning Mike's role in getting the slave law repealed, Jessica had been only too happy to sponsor him, going so far as to provide a personal recommendation and a pledge, in writing, to pay his tuition in full. If he placed well when he graduated, he would also have a position waiting for him at Pearson Hardman.

When Jessica spelled this all out for him, Mike had been too stunned to do anything more than nod and stutter out a thank you. Now, a day later, he looked across the room to where Harvey sat with his laptop open on a tray table, trying to get some work done. He wore casual clothes – jeans and a t-shirt – and he looked tired.

“Tell me the truth," Mike said. "Was that all Jessica's idea, or did you use your influence to convince her?"

"Jessica does what she wants. Consider it your reward for furthering a cause she believes in."

"You're saying you didn't put in a good word for me, at least?"

"I gave her an honest assessment of your potential, that's all. Now if you don’t mind, I have a ton of e-mails I need to answer."

"You know you can go home, right?” Mike asked him. “Or actually spend some time at the office? I’m sure you could get more work done somewhere else.”

“Not until I know you’re safe.”

Mike sighed. They'd had this argument several times already, but he wasn't quite ready to concede. "I'm no longer your responsibility, Harvey." This was true. With his pardon, his indenture contract had been nullified, and he was no longer tied to Harvey in any legal sense. One small, deeply hidden part of him that he refused to acknowledge, grieved that lost connection -- the last connection he'd had to a single other person.

Mike fought down the incipient tears that kept wanting to pool in his eyes, and continued with his reasoned arguments. "The rebels got what they wanted, so why would they still want me dead? Besides, if things work out, I'll be heading up to Harvard in a few months. I'll always be grateful for what you did for me, but I think it's time for me to move on." _And you as well._ The words hung between them, unsaid but implied, and Mike's chest felt tight at the thought of the looming separation.

Harvey's hands had frozen over his keyboard. Now he closed the lid and leaned back in his chair, eyes dark and unreadable. "You have weeks of rehab still ahead of you, Mike. Who is going to get you to your appointments, or take care of you until you're able to get around on your own? You can't even walk across the room by yourself right now, much less feed yourself properly, use the toilet, or take a shower. I don't see anyone else lining up to look after you."

Mike scowled at him. Leave it to Harvey to rub his nose in the fact that Mike was completely alone in the world. “Dr. Graves said they wouldn’t be releasing me for at least another week. By then I should be able to get around just fine on crutches.”

“And you intend to live on the streets, I suppose?”

“Maybe I’ll go join that rabble in Prospect Park. I’m sure someone could spare me a corner of their tent.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Harvey tilted his head to one side, as if trying to figure Mike out. “Why are you so bound and determined to reject my offer of free room and board? Or any other help, for that matter?”

“Because….” Mike sighed noisily and scratched at his thigh, just above his new knee. He didn’t have a single logical reason to throw back at Harvey. “Fine,” he finally said, knowing he sounded like a grumpy child. “I'll stick around until I can find somewhere else to go. But you don’t own me anymore. Never forget that.”

Seeming satisfied with the temporary victory, Harvey opened his laptop again and resumed work. After a few minutes, he said, without taking his eyes off of the screen, “I never owned you Mike. No matter what the law said.”

 

******

 

Despite Mike’s attempts to convince him to leave, Harvey continued his stubborn vigil at his bedside. The guards that he’d badgered Getty into posting outside Mike’s door had been recalled a few days earlier when no attempts had been made on Mike’s life. Although he was probably being overly cautious, Harvey judged that it was never a bad idea to take threats from fanatics seriously, which was why he had effectively moved his office to Mike’s hospital room, and took breaks only when he was relieved by either Donna or Rachel.

One advantage of being away from the office was that he could work on his laptop while keeping the room’s television turned to one of the news channels in order to keep abreast of current events. It still amazed him – although human beings begin the resilient creatures that they were, it probably shouldn’t have – how quickly life in the empire returned to what passed for normal after the slave law was repealed. Unrest had dwindled and stopped almost entirely, businesses reopened, and life continued on as it had before.

Seattle and its surrounding territory were the only holdouts. So far, they continued to stick to their secessionist guns, and Getty and the emperor had decided to humor them for now. Harvey had no doubt that before the year was out, they’d be brought back into the fold, whether by force or voluntarily. He hoped it would be voluntary.

The Orsini scandal stayed in the news for weeks, being simply too delicious for the news outlets to let go of. The former deputy proconsul was demonized and scapegoated in every way possible, with the role of the Ancient Regime party conveniently forgotten. For their part, the ultra-conservatives remained out of sight and out of the spotlight. Harvey had to wonder if they were simply biding their time until they could try again, or if they had learned anything from witnessing the disastrous results of their twisted vision of the world finally coming to at least partial fruition.

Katrina Orsini had been taken into custody along with her father. She had been summarily convicted of collusion with her father’s misdeeds, particularly with regards to the stolen pensions and early exit profiteering. Her signature, it turned out, had been all over the corporate documents and bank accounts. In what Harvey could only consider the perfect sort of justice, she was placed into the indenture system. He had yet to discover where she’d ended up, but could only hope it involved something highly toxic or radioactive. Or both.

Her father, being a special case, had disappeared from public view, and rumor had it that he’d already met his fate at the hands of one of the government appointed Stranglers. Personally, Harvey would have preferred that Orsini had spent a day enduring the hospitality of former Grand High Inquisitor Clifford Offerman, but as long as he was no longer sharing breath with the rest of the world, Harvey would take that as a win.

He glanced over at Mike, who was watching the news with a heavy-lidded, bored expression on his face. He was still pretty doped up on pain meds. Still, following the surgery, his appearance had finally begun to improve. The visible bruises had faded and disappeared, but he still retained a dull, listless aspect that it pained Harvey to see. He couldn’t help but remember the bright-eyed, restless boy he had first met, filled with sharp humor and breathtaking intelligence.

And although he tried not to, Harvey could also remember that all too brief time when they had moved together, chasing their pleasure, and Mike had come apart beneath him so beautifully. He felt belated regret at how coldly he’d treated Mike that night. Maybe if he had shown Mike how strongly he had wanted him to stay, had given in to the temptation to wrap his arms around the boy and keep him close…but he hadn’t, he'd been a stiff-necked fool, and now they were left in this odd sort of emotional limbo.

“Oh, shit, would you look at that.” Mike’s amused and horrified voice startled Harvey out of his reverie, and he turned his attention to the television.

The news was doing another piece on the homeless camp in Prospect Park, which had evidently organized itself with a governing body and its own set of laws.

“This latest donation to the camp,” the reporter was saying, “is particularly poignant. Lola Jensen has become something of a martyr among the empire’s indentures and other disenfranchised groups.” She held up a t-shirt with the now iconic image of Lola on top of Orsini’s dirigible, holding up her hand-lettered sign. “Freedom for all,” the reporter said, “has become a rallying cry which has caught on here in Brooklyn and elsewhere. As I look around me, I see dozens of people wearing the shirt, along with this one.” Now she held up a second t-shirt displaying Mike’s face, frozen in that moment of shock when he’d seen Lola fall. “Initially thought to be a terrorist, unsubstantiated rumors now indicate that this unnamed young man played some part in the repeal of the slave law. Amazing stuff.” The story ended as the reporter threw it back to the studio.

Mike groaned. “Great. Can they do that? I never gave my permission to have my face plastered across the front of a t-shirt.”

Harvey wasn’t thrilled with the thought either. Would this help or hurt Mike’s chances with the rebels? He supposed only time would provide the answer to that question.

 

Around one-thirty, Donna showed up with lunch for Mike, and orders for Harvey to go outside for at least an hour and inhale some air that didn't smell of antiseptic and ammonia. He was only too happy to obey. He left his laptop where it was, grabbed his jacket and headed for the elevators. He passed Rachel on her way to Mike's room. She was carrying what looked like a milkshake or smoothie, probably another treat for Mike, and she looked tired and a little disheveled, as if she’d missed her regular laundry day, and had been forced to ransack the back of her closet to put an outfit together. She glanced up and gave Harvey the barest of nods as they passed.

The elevator seemed to take forever to arrive. Harvey jabbed at the down arrow impatiently, until the doors finally creaked open. He pushed his way into the crowded car, and endured what seemed an endless journey down eight floors to street level, with frequent stops and much coming and going of the other passengers.

Eventually, they reached the lobby, where one of the ubiquitous _Spartacus Coffee_ franchises took up most of one corner just inside the front door. He paused, considering whether he should grab some coffee before venturing outside. It was a fine, sunny day though, so he kept going past _Spartacus_.

He stopped to hold the door open for a young woman who was entering the hospital, and offered a distracted smile and short nod when he recognized Rachel.

And maybe he needed that coffee more than he’d realized, because he actually walked six steps down the sidewalk before comprehension struck.

One Rachel in the lobby, and another Rachel in Mike’s room, probably already offering him the beverage she had brought with her.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and spun on his heel to re-enter the building. He didn’t wait for the elevator this time, but pushed into the stairwell and began sprinting upwards toward the eighth floor.

 

******

 

Donna had brought him the Lemongrass Chicken Noodle Bowl from the pho place that she and Harvey favored, and he was busily scarfing it down without proper respect for the four stars of heat scorching his tongue and insides.

“Thisish great,” he said around a mouthful of noodles. His next bite contained more than its fair allotment of red pepper flakes, and he wheezed in pain. “Water,” he gasped.

Through watering eyes, he spotted Rachel just entering the room, holding a lidded cup with a straw stuck in it. “Liquid,” he coughed. “Beverage. For the love of all the gods.” He made frantic grabby hands.

Instead of laughing at his antics, as he might have expected her to do, Rachel looked weirdly distraught. She came closer, right up to his bedside, and handed him the cup, face solemn. Frowning, Mike brought the straw to his lips. A hand came flying in out nowhere and knocked the cup clear across the room.

“Hey,” he managed, just before pandemonium broke out.

After knocking the drink out of Mike’s hand, Donna shoved Rachel away and attempted to tackle her. Rachel was having none of it, and almost too fast for Mike to track, she spun away, spun back again, and kicked Donna’s feet out from underneath her. Donna recovered with speed, sitting up and grabbing Rachel around the knees.

“What?” was all that Mike could think to ask. He considered searching for something heavy to use as a weapon, but had no idea which one he should clonk over the head. “You guys. What the fuck? Stop it. I mean it. Cut it out.”

Some hair may have been pulled, and he was pretty sure he saw Donna rise up on her knees and bite down on Rachel’s arm when the dark-haired woman made a move toward Mike’s IV drip. Rachel screeched in anger and pain, and kicked Donna in the side. Luckily for Donna, Rachel wasn’t wearing her usual stiletto pumps, but had opted for a pair of lightweight canvas sneakers which were both filthy and torn.

Mike blinked. But…but…Rachel wouldn’t be caught dead in those shoes. His brain finally caught up with the situation, and he realized this wasn’t sexy paralegal Rachel who was now rolling around on the floor with Donna. This had to be med-tech Rachel, who had recently tried to recruit Harvey as her own personal Poisoner.

He jumped out of the bed…or rather he rolled to the side and gingerly slid to his feet, teetering for long moments like a wind-buffeted sapling. Using the bed, and the nightstand, and the walls for balance, he edged closer to the two-woman brawl, and then let go and Frankenstein-walked to within striking range. Halfway there, he felt an unpleasant twinge in his knee, but ignored it and kept moving.

By then, Rachel was sitting on Donna’s thighs, leaning in and slowly throttling her. For her part, Donna had the other woman’s forearms in a death grip, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her flesh and drawing blood.

Desperately, Mike scanned his vicinity for any weapons within arm’s reach, and finally, with only minimal misgivings, took hold of Harvey’s laptop computer, raised it above his head with shaking arms, and brought it down on the back of Rachel’s skull. She collapsed on top of Donna, and Mike, who had overbalanced, followed her down.

“Mike,” roared a panicked sounding Harvey from behind him. “Donna!”

“Your laptop,” Donna whimpered.

“Urgh,” Mike contributed. He felt strong arms wrap around his waist, and then he was being lifted off the pile and set ungently on the edge of the bed.

“Security is on the way,” Harvey assured them as he helped Donna to her feet. “Are you both okay?” Before either could answer, Harvey spotted the spilled drink on the ground. He spun towards Mike. “You didn’t drink any of that, did you?”

Mike collapsed slowly backwards onto the bed, until he was staring up at the ceiling. “I was about to, but Donna slapped it out of my hand and then body-slammed faux Rachel.”

“If she’s faux, then so am I.” The paralegal, stilettos and all, stood in the doorway, staring down at her unconscious clone with both fascination and horror. She tore her gaze away to look at Mike. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” he said to the ceiling. “Have I told you that you’re my favorite Rachel? I’m just gonna take a nap.” He closed his eyes. “Someone should look at Donna’s throat. By the way, I seriously love you, Donna. You’re a warrior.”

“Mike, you’re bleeding,” he heard Harvey point out.

Yes, he was. He’d yanked out his IV in all the confusion. He thought about saying as much, but that seemed like too much of an effort, and besides, it was rather obvious. Harvey would find someone to take care of it. Harvey would sort things out.

And why was it, he tried to recall, that he’d been so determined to send Harvey away and fend for himself? As he lay there, exhausted and drifting, he couldn’t remember why in all the hells he had thought that was a good idea.

Later, he’d take the time to think about how close he had come to losing his life after everything he’d been through, and he would have a suitable freak out, preferably when he was alone – assuming Harvey ever left his side again. He’d find some suitable way to thank Donna for her quick thinking and scrappy fighting skills. Who else, besides Donna, would have spotted the fake Rachel so quickly?

Right now, though, he didn’t need to do anything except breathe in and out, hope he hadn’t messed up his still-healing knee, and let Harvey take charge of everything.

That felt so good and so right that it scared him more than a little.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for an update. Thanks for sticking with the story, if you're still reading. There is one more chapter to go, which I hope to have up within the next week or two. 
> 
> Oh, and that medical nonsense about the bones and the nano-proteins is completely made up hogwash. But since we evidently don't believe in Science anymore here in America, why be fettered by such petty considerations as facts and reality? Amirite? (Who me? Bitter?)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter....

Mike was released from the hospital a week later. Luckily, his knee had not suffered a setback during the scuffle with Rachel. He still could not fully wrap his head around the fact that a woman who had seemed so open and friendly and helpful when he’d first met her, could have tried to kill him. Harvey had told him about the earlier incident with the poison, but hearing about that secondhand and actually experiencing an attack in person were two entirely different things. As if he hadn’t grown cynical enough in the past few weeks, that was definitely the final nail in the coffin of whatever vestiges of innocence he had still imagined that he possessed.

It made him think long and hard about what it meant to be a fanatic, and about how noble ideals could be twisted and subverted by once well-meaning people when they lost sight of their original goals.

Following the attack, Donna had ushered Rachel the paralegal out of the room and ordered her to lay low for a few days. Although few people took the Clone Mutual Culpability Act seriously anymore, the law remained on the books, and there didn’t seem to be any reason to muddy the investigative waters with dueling Rachels.

Proconsul Getty had called Mike personally to apologize, which Mike later wished he’d recorded for posterity, because really, when had the ruling class ever been known for their humility? Against Harvey’s wishes, Mike lobbied for leniency for the would-be assassin, but was told that Rachel’s fate was out of both Mike’s and Getty’s hands.

After the call, guards were once more posted outside of his room, and when Harvey brought him home, they took up their obstinate positions on the street outside of Harvey’s building.

That was all well and good, but didn’t do anything to solve Mike’s longer term predicament. He could remain safely holed up in Harvey’s apartment for now, but what was he supposed to do when he left for Harvard in a few months? He’d already lost his anonymity with those damn t-shirts. Was he also supposed to be the guy with the large men in dark suits shadowing him around campus, speaking into their wrists and not bothering to hide the bulge of guns underneath their arms? That wouldn’t win him any friends.

He’d tried to bring the issue up with Harvey, but the older man simply assured him that it would all work itself out, and that he shouldn’t worry, should leave everything to Harvey. While handing over the burden of responsibility held a certain appeal, it didn’t do anything to answer his questions or calm his low-level anxiety about the whole situation.

With Mike safely tucked away and under twenty-four hour guard, Harvey finally returned to work full time. This left Mike alone for most of the day, with way too much time on his hands to worry and fret and wonder about his future – that is, if he even had a future.

On the plus side, his recuperation was speeding right along. His physical therapist visited him three times a week, and regularly expressed his pleasure with Mike’s progress. By his second week home, Mike was getting around without crutches, and while he wasn’t yet ready to run any marathons, he believed that he could at least manage the walk to the neighborhood bar with little difficulty. When he tried this out for real, however, one night when Harvey was especially late getting home from work, he was turned back by his politely insistent guards.

So…freedom. Not exactly all that it was advertised to be.

The whole thing might have been made more bearable if Harvey had shown even the slightest interest in starting back up where they’d left off that one memorable night. Harvey, however, seemed determined to treat Mike more like a client than a friend or a one-time lover. He was polite but distant.

Then one evening Mike overheard him on the phone speaking to Scottie, and that stung more than Mike would have expected. Was Harvey seeing her again? He supposed that from Harvey’s perspective, that made more sense than starting something with Mike which could only be temporary. Harvey certainly had more in common with Scottie than Mike.

He tried to tell himself that he didn’t care, and that if Scottie made Harvey happy, then Mike would strive to be happy on his behalf. Because, he concluded bitterly, with the way things currently stood, there wasn’t much to be happy over on his own behalf.

 

******

 

Harvey had been surprised when Scottie informed him of the location set for the meeting. He wondered if it was meant as some kind of message for him, since Scottie had always been fond of that sort of subtle irony.

Tom’s building was only blocks away from one of the worst of the burned out neighborhoods, and as Harvey neared the Brooklyn address, he drove past dozens of bulldozed lots and new construction sites, now dark and quiet for the night, gave the area an eerily deserted atmosphere.

Arriving at his destination, he parked on the street and walked to the front door, reviewing once more in his mind what he hoped would be resolved tonight.

Tom let him in, and the contrast between now and the last time Harvey had been here couldn’t have been more pronounced. The house was quiet, with no pounding electronic music threatening to melt his brain. The lighting was subdued, and no revelers crowded the main room.

“Donna couldn’t make it,” he informed Tom. “She’s working at the tent city again tonight. I’ll fill her in tomorrow on what we decide. Is everyone else here?”

“You’re the last one. Fashionably late as always. Come on. We’re meeting in the dining room.”

As Tom led him to the back of the house, Harvey asked, “How did you manage to avoid the fires?”

“No idea. If this place was two blocks east of here, it would have been a pile of ash. Fate, right?”

Harvey had no answer for that.

They’d reached the dining room, and he looked around the big, round table, assuring himself that all parties were present. Scottie gave him a grim smile, Jessica nodded regally, Trevor smirked in the way that Harvey was already beginning to detest, and Cesare eyed him with faun-like suspicion. They didn’t look like much, he had to admit, but with a little luck and a lot of hard work, this group could represent the embryo of the hope of the Empire – and more importantly to Harvey right now, hope for Mike’s future.

“How’s Mike doing?” asked Trevor as Harvey was taking his seat.

Harvey gave him a level look. “He’s doing fine. As well as can be expected.” He didn’t mention the nightmares that interrupted Mike’s – and his – sleep most nights, or how he caught Mike every so often just gazing blankly at the far wall, as some disturbing memory played out in his mind, or how he still flinched when touched unexpectedly.

Trevor managed to maintain eye contact with Harvey, but at least appeared slightly abashed. “I never meant for him to get hurt,” he said.

“And yet….”

Trevor shrugged. “It was for the – ”

“Don’t,” Harvey warned, cutting him off. “Don’t even think of telling me that everything Mike suffered was for the greater good, or I’ll knock your gods damned teeth down your throat. For _my_ greater good.”

“All right, Harvey,” Scottie interrupted. “Down boy. We’re not here to attack one another. If, as you intend, we are going to be allies going forward, we all need to leave our disagreements and personal animosities at the door. Agreed?”

Harvey gave a reluctant nod, Trevor did the same, and then Jessica spoke up.

“We’re all here because we share the same view that the indenture system and the clone program both need to be torn out by the roots and done away with permanently. Correct?”

Assenting nods from around the table greeted her words, and she continued.

“So here how it's going to go. Harvey and I will work the legal angle, making sure that challenges to the system are appealed up the chain of the court system, and brought to prominence. Scottie and Cesare will continue their abolitionist work, and strengthen their network so that it extends throughout the whole of the Empire. Tom, you’ve agreed to use your contacts within the ruling families to influence hearts and minds, raise money for the cause, and help prepare the way for future legislation. And Trevor….” She gave him a long, considering look. “I’m still not entirely clear why Harvey included you in this meeting. Perhaps you could tell us in your own words what you bring to the table.”

Smirk-free for once, Trevor addressed the group. “No one else here knows the rebels like I do.”

At Jessica’s eloquently raised eyebrow, Trevor laughed.

“No offense, Ms. Pearson. You may be a sympathizer, and a strong supporter, but have you ever been down in the trenches like I have? You don’t need to respond, because we all know that the answer is ‘no’. Donations, even generous donations like yours, will only get you so far. Me? I know the leaders of the movement, and they trust me.”

Here, his gaze flicked to Tom, and then away again just as quickly, but the look wasn’t lost on Harvey, and confirmed something he had long suspected.

“So you’ve got street cred,” Jessica said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What I want to hear is, what are you going to do with it?”

Trevor smiled, all confidence. “I’m about to leave on a long, extended trip through the farthest reaches of the empire. I’ll be strengthening the rebel networks with the eventual goal of centralization, facilitating connections, and most importantly, making certain that everyone knows that anyone who had contact with Mike Ross has been compromised, and should seek new identities, passwords and bases of operation. Once those protections are put into place, Mike will be safe from future retaliation.”

“But,” interjected Tom, “there is one condition.”

No one questioned Tom’s right to set the conditions. Everyone else must have already been aware of his secret life.

“Tell us,” Jessica said mildly.

Tom smiled at her. “As satisfying as it might be for the rebels to stir shit up and agitate for change from outside the system, common sense tells us that the only real, lasting change is going to come from within.”

Cesare spoke up for the first time. “Spoken like a true member of the privileged ruling class. There are always one or two class traitors in the Senate, and they’re considered nothing more than sideshows, or crackpots who should be ignored.”

Unfazed, Tom continued, “Which is why we need new faces and new voices in our governing body.”

“We all know the system is fixed,” Scottie pointed out. “Senators are appointed, not elected. It’s all one big, incestuous circle jerk.”

“And who does the appointing?” Tom asked. “Why, none other than Harvey Specter’s new best friend, Proconsul Getty.”

A short, weighted silence, and then, “ _What_?” Harvey protested. “Oh, hells no. Don’t even joke about that shit.”

“Why not?” said Jessica. “I’ve always thought you’d do splendidly in the political arena.”

“You know I don’t have the patience for that sort of thing. You’d be better suited than I would, Jessica.” He shuddered a little as he thought about it. “All of that intrigue and backstabbing would drive me out of my mind.”

Jessica laughed at him. “Bullshit. You know you love it Harvey. You’re an advocate. You live for that shit.”

“And if you say no,” Tom warned, “I won’t be able to promise Mike’s safety.”

Harvey glowered at Tom. “Why don’t you get yourself appointed? You speak their language, share their blood.”

Tom shook his head, smiling sadly. “In case it has escaped your notice, my family is currently in deep disgrace, what with my uncle and cousin Katrina being hauled off in chains recently. No Harvey, this is not up for negotiation. In two years, when the new appointments are announced, your name will be among them.”

Harvey detested the very idea, but he needed to think about what was best for Mike. Besides, two years was a long time. Surely he could come up with some strategy in that amount of time to avoid, or at least postpone, an appointment. He pretended to think it over.

“What are you offering in return?” he asked finally.

“Word will go out immediately through the rebel networks, and will be reinforced by Trevor in person, that Mike Ross is out of bounds and not to be touched.”

“Can I tell him the rest?” Trevor asked Tom, who nodded his assent. “In a few years, when Mike gets his degree from Harvard, and becomes an advocate, we expect him to eventually follow in Harvey’s footsteps and join the Senate.”

“Oh, really?” Harvey asked. “What if that’s not what Mike wants for his future? Doesn’t he get a say in this?”

Jessica put a hand on his arm. “We’ll be there behind the scenes, guiding and mentoring him. With our influence, I’m confident that he’ll see the wisdom of our plans for him.”

Harvey stared up at the ceiling, lecturing himself to remain calm. “Don’t you think Mike’s been through enough? And really, this is your idea of freedom?”

Everyone began to argue at once, and Harvey raised a hand to stop them.

“Those are some pretty grand plans you all have for Mike. You want him to become a senator? And how does something like that even happen? Do any of you seriously believe that a former indenture – a former _slave_ for gods’ sake – is going to be allowed into the imperial Senate? That’s not even taking into account that he was a suspected terrorist, no matter how briefly. The government news channels and conservative blogosphere would have a field day.”

“You’re thinking according to ‘what is,’ Harvey,” Tom said, “not ‘what could be.’ We’re talking about changing the world here. We want nothing less than to tear the old system down, piece by piece, and build something better. No one ever said it would be easy, but if we work together, we can get there.”

Harvey did a slow hand clap, his face a mask of derision. “You should be writing speeches, Tom, not wasting your time with that fantasy gladiator nonsense.”

Tom’s smile remained genial. “Yeah, we get it. You’re Harvey Specter, confirmed cynic, but that’s fine. That attitude will serve you well during your long political career.”

“Tom….” The other man only smiled blandly back at Harvey, so he turned to Jessica. “Seriously, Jessica? You’re okay with losing your biggest money maker to politics?”

She shrugged. “Technically, Louis still leads you in billables. But yes, I can live with it, because I expect that your appointment will serve to raise the profile of the firm.”

“Oh great,” Harvey grumbled, “already I’ve got people hitting me up for favors.”

She smiled her sphinx smile at him, and he threw up his hands in defeat.

“How soon with it be safe to call off Mike’s guards? Or for him to go outside on his own? I assume there’s still a hit out on him.”

Trevor answered him. “Once I’ve talked to some of the main players, I’ll send word back to Tom. Maybe a month? Can you live with that?”

“I suppose I’ll have to.” After a short silence, Harvey looked around the table. “So? Is that it? Are we done here?”

“For now,” said Tom. “I propose we meet here once a month to report back to one another and keep things on track. Agreed?”

Everyone nodded their agreement, and after that the meeting broke up. Harvey was impatient to get home to Mike, who had been growing more and more restless as he grew stronger. Still, he put a hand on Trevor’s arm, stopping him before he could leave the room.

“Let’s talk a second,” he said. “Outside.”

When they were standing by Harvey’s car, Trevor leaning against the building with his arms crossed over his chest, Harvey asked, “Have you changed your mind about Mike?”

Trevor looked uncomfortable, but he shook his head firmly. “He’s better off without me. I’ve only ever brought him trouble. He’s going places now, and he doesn’t need a guy like me weighing him down.”

“You don’t think he’s earned some kind of explanation from you, at least?”

“You’ll just have to trust me on this. A clean break is best.”

Harvey didn’t agree, and he was still debating the wisdom of telling Mike about Trevor. Whatever he ultimately decided would be for Mike's sake, not Trevor's. “What about Jenny?” he asked.

Trevor blew out a long breath. “She’s doing better. That crap is finally out of her system. She’s weak, but hopeful. Scottie says they’ll be able move her north by the end of the month.”

“And Mike?”

“She refuses to see him. She won’t say much about it, but I gather that their last meeting did not go well. I think she’s….She doesn’t want to face him, for some reason.”

Harvey’s jaw clenched in frustration. So much for good friends. It looked like Mike would be starting over fresh in every way. “For the record, I believe you’re both underestimating Mike. You represent a link to his past, the final one, and knowing that you’re both all right would go a long way to settling him down. However, I can’t say I’m overly disappointed that you won’t be around to get him in any more trouble.”

Trevor didn’t reply to that, just stared stonily back at Harvey.

After a brief staring match, Harvey finally sighed and asked, “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“The less we’re seen together, the better for the both of us.”

Harvey couldn’t argue with that. “Then I’ll wish you a successful journey. Watch your back.”

“Always.” Trevor pulled out all the stops on his parting smirk, and then hurried away into the night.

Harvey got in the car and headed home.

 

Mike was waiting for him in the living room, sitting on the couch with the television off. Harvey came to a surprised halt when he saw what Mike was wearing – one of the t-shirts with his own face on it.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“Donna paid a visit.”

“Oh? I thought she was working at the tent city tonight.”

“She was on her way there. She didn’t stay long.”

Something was off about Mike’s demeanor, and when Harvey took two more steps into the room, he realized why. Mike’s duffel bag sat at his feet with his coat draped over it, the new one Harvey had bought him a week ago. Harvey felt a moment of raw panic, but quickly covered it by feigning irritation.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

Mike stared up at him, expression grim. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome, so I decided to clear out. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of…anything.”

Baffled, Harvey narrowed his eyes and sat on the other end of the couch. “Would you care to clarify that remark? Get in the way of what, exactly?”

Mike slouched further down into the couch. Instead of answering Harvey’s question, he surprised him by asking, “Where were you tonight?”

Harvey gaped at him, and guilt made his voice sharper than it should have been. “Mike… _what_? I told you on the phone. I had a client meeting.” His plan had been to, at minimum, wait until Trevor had brought his message to the rebels before he told Mike anything about the alliance that had been formed tonight, and what their plans were. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if he _would_ tell Mike about the group, at least not until after he had completed his education at Harvard, because Mike didn’t need the extra worry to distract him from his studies.

Instead of accepting Harvey's answer, Mike gave him a darkly reproachful look, confusing Harvey further.

“Did you see Scottie tonight?” Mike asked, setting him back on his heels yet again. “Is that where you were?”

So, now what? Lie to Mike’s face? He obviously knew something already. Watching Mike closely so he could gauge his reaction, he said, “Yes. Scottie was present tonight.”

Mike’s face tightened in what almost looked like pain. “Okay,” he breathed. He stood and picked up his duffel bag. “Then that’s my answer. Thanks for everything, Harvey. You literally saved me – twice – and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

Harvey stood, but his feet felt welded to the floor as he watched Mike turn and move towards the door.   “Wait,” he said. “Mike. Just…wait.” Mike’s hand was on the doorknob when Harvey finally regained the ability to move. He covered the distance between them in several long strides and placed the flat of his hand on the door, shutting it with a decisive _click_.

Seemingly surprised by Harvey’s actions, Mike backed away, eyeing him warily. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t keep me here, Harvey. I’m a free citizen again, and I have the paperwork to prove it. Donna told me they’d be happy to have me at the tent city.” He pointed at his t-shirt, a sardonic half-smile on his face. “This shirt is my passport, basically.”

Harvey shifted around so his back was against the door, effectively barring Mike’s exit. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, no. It’s not safe out there for you.”

Mike let the duffel bag fall to the floor with a thump, crossed his arms and lifted his chin, looking as if he was ready for a fight. “Maybe not, but that’s not going to change any time soon, is it? I can’t hide out for the rest of my life.”

“And you won’t have to. This is only temporary. All I’m asking is that you exercise some patience and trust me. Things are in motion.” He stopped himself, afraid that he had already said too much.

Mike had gone still, seeming to ponder the meaning of Harvey’s words. “Things? What things, Harvey?”

Knowing exactly how Mike would react, still all Harvey could say in reply was, “I can’t tell you.”

Mike did not prove him wrong. His face went almost red with anger. “You can’t tell me? It’s my life we’re talking about here. Don’t you think I deserve the truth? Haven’t I earned that much?” He turned and paced to the living room window, seeming to need to work off his nervous energy. “I thought we were past this. I thought my emancipation meant you were done controlling my life. You see? This here – this is exactly the reason why I need to get the hell’s out of here.”

Harvey didn’t say anything immediately, just watched Mike’s strong, slender back as he gazed down on the city. When he finally trusted his voice, he said quietly, “You deserve everything, Mike. And that is what I intend to give you.”

A bitter laugh from Mike. “Everything?” He shook his head slowly. “No, Harvey, not even close. Because what I really want….” He swallowed audibly, and turned back around, his expression mournful. “I don’t share,” he whispered, and then more strongly, “and I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.”

Confusion had Harvey shaking his head as if to clear it. He wanted to go to Mike, to get close enough to shake some sense into him, or maybe shake a better explanation out of him. He’d never use force on Mike, though, and he wouldn’t give up his post at the door and give Mike the chance to escape out into the night.

“There’s obviously a fundamental misunderstanding or miscommunication at work here, so I’ll just state it as clearly as I can: I want you here. You’re wanted. I want you.”

The echoes of the last three words trembled in the silence that fell between them. _I want you_. He hadn’t meant them as anything more than a blunt denial of Mike’s earlier words. But it hit him now, with the strength of a hard punch to the gut, that they were the truest words he’d spoken tonight, a simple declaration of his feelings. He wanted Mike. Did Mike feel the same way about him? Harvey realized that he didn’t know. Mike’s actions tonight, though, and his words…

He replayed their conversation in his mind. The first thing Mike had asked was whether Harvey had seen Scottie tonight, and Harvey hadn’t denied it, had, in fact, confirmed it.

Mike’s expression now remained stubbornly closed off. He shook his head, but otherwise didn’t answer Harvey’s declaration.

“Mike,” Harvey began carefully, “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but you need to know that there’s nothing between Scottie and me. Not anymore. That night at Tom’s, that was an aberration, a mistake that will never happen again.”

“But.” Mike shook his head as if fending off a pesky insect. “You were with her tonight.”

“I told you, it was a work meeting. She was in attendance, along with several other…colleagues.” He waited, but Mike stayed quiet. “Do you believe me? Mike, please tell me you believe me.”

“I want to,” Mike murmured, “but….”

“But what?”

“When you say you want me, what does that mean? What exactly, does it mean?”

Harvey’s plan where Mike was concerned, inasmuch as he had one, had been to wait and watch, to make sure that Mike was one hundred percent healthy, that his nightmares had receded and his lingering aversion to touch began to fade. When that happened, and not before, Harvey intended to make his feelings plain and see if Mike wished to pursue a relationship with him. Now, however, with Mike about to walk out the door and everything on the line, Harvey scrapped those plans and didn’t look back.

He pushed off from the door and stalked across the room until he stood chest to chest with Mike, not quite touching. “What does it mean, Mike? Are you telling me you honestly don’t know?”

Mike didn’t step back, or shift his gaze away, so Harvey lifted a hand slowly and placed it on the side of Mike’s neck. Still no retreat from Mike, but he could feel his pulse under his fingertips, racing in what Harvey could only hope was excitement, not fear.

“When I say I want you, Mike, it means in every way that there is. It means this.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to Mike’s, not forcing him, exerting no pressure, simply waiting for a response. It took several seconds, but then Mike took a half step closer, bringing their bodies together, and softened his mouth, letting Harvey in.

The kiss was long and wet and sloppy and perfect. Their tongues tangled and fenced, and their breathless moans mingled and vibrated between them. Mike’s arms circled his waist, clutching tight. He began to grind his pelvis against Harvey, who broke the kiss and buried his face against Mike’s neck.

“Gods,” Harvey murmured, “you taste so sweet.”

“You do too,” replied Mike on a breathless laugh.

As good as it felt to hold Mike, Harvey forced himself to let go and back up half a step. “I want you and I don’t want to wait any longer. Just…you need to tell me you’re ready for this. The last thing I want, after all you’ve been through, is for you to feel that I’m pushing you into something….”

Because the memory that wouldn't leave him, the one that kept him awake at night and poisoned his dreams, was the memory of Mike shackled to Offerman's table, begging Harvey in a terrified voice not to touch him. The scene played now in his mind, and a cold shiver raced up and down his spine.

He might have lost his nerve entirely, but Mike grabbed his hand and tugged at it. “I’m not ready,” he began, and Harvey’s heart nearly stopped until Mike spoke his next words. He said, “I’m not ready to do this standing up in front of your picture window.” At Harvey’s raised eyebrow, Mike laughed again, and he sounded so happy, as if a crushing weight had been lifted off of him all at once. “Not this time, anyway.” Another, stronger tug on Harvey’s hand. “Harvey, it's all right. I’m all right. I'm not going to break. I promise."

Harvey knew the truth of that, had witnessed for himself how impossible it was to drive Mike all the way to the breaking point. He allowed himself a smile. "No. You're not going to break. But if you'll let me, maybe I can make you come apart for me."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself. All right, I'll let you prove to me how much you want me. So... bed. Now.”

Mike walked backwards, pulling him, and Harvey let himself be led. He was laughing too, focusing on the fragile bubble of happiness inside him, not wanting to dwell on how close they had just come to losing this. “Look who thinks he’s giving orders now.”

“Just trying to balance things out.” They stumbled through the door to Harvey’s bedroom and Mike’s fingers began to make quick work of the buttons on Harvey’s shirt. Harvey returned the favor, dragging Mike’s t-shirt over his head with too much force, and wincing as he heard it tear.

“Shit, sorry,” he said breathlessly, kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his pants.

“Hey, I hear they're as plentiful as flies on syrup. Donna can probably scrounge us up a couple dozen more.” Mike had achieved nudity sooner than Harvey, and flopped back onto the king-sized bed, one knee raised, and his hand idly stroking his stiffening cock.

“I prefer the original,” Harvey murmured, stripping off his boxer briefs. He crawled up and over Mike’s body, straddling his hips, and batted Mike’s hand away, growling, “No touching unless I say so. That’s mine.” He watched Mike’s face, looking for his reaction to those words.

Mike’s mouth stretched in a slow, dirty smile. “Is that so? You want to be in charge? Okay. Show me you know what you’re doing.”

Always up for a challenge, Harvey took hold of Mike’s cock and began a slow, twisty stroking, before capturing pre-come on his thumb and running it teasingly up the underside.

Mike grunted and thrust upwards, only to be me by empty air when Harvey removed his hand.

“Harvey….” He whined.

“Tell me,” Harvey purred. “Tell me what you want.” He thumbed Mike’s nipples, just light, flicking touches.

“I… Everything,” he groaned, moving restlessly. “I want everything. But can we not…I don’t want your teasing. Not tonight. Next time, and every time after that if you want, we can play these games. But I need you inside me, and if you don’t claim me _now_ , I may lose my mind.”

Mike’s desperate words incited him, and Harvey would absolutely give him what he craved, because he craved the same thing. He couldn’t resist, though, leaning in, grasping Mike’s wrists, and licking a stripe up his neck before whispering in his ear, “Say it, then. I want to hear it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Tell me I own you.”

Mike whimpered and bucked up. “Fuck you Harvey. _Yes_. You own me. Always and forever. As long as you want me. _Please…._ ”

That last, drawn out plea almost proved too much for Harvey. He grabbed for the lube on the nightstand, at the same time hissing, “Get your knees up. Spread yourself open for me.”

Mike grasped his legs underneath the knees and did as Harvey had ordered, and Harvey’s mouth went dry at the sight of Mike spread and vulnerable right there, in front of him, his for the taking. Finally.

He made quick work with the lube, probably rushing things along a little too quickly. Mike didn’t complain. He squirmed and sighed, and thrust down on Harvey’s fingers.

“More,” he panted. “Yeah. That’s good. I’m ready. Fuck me.”

Hands shaking, Harvey lubed himself up, and then rubbed the head of his cock over Mike’s puckered entrance. The sounds Mike made when he breached him had his heart hammering in sudden remembered fear, because although a quick check of Mike’s facial expression showed only melting pleasure, _those sounds…._ Moans of pleasure and groans of pain weren’t all that different, as it turned out. The memories they stirred up sent another shiver of panic up Harvey’s spine.

He paused, raising one hand to rub his knuckles down the side of Mike’s sweat-damp face. “Sweetheart,” he breathed, “open your eyes.”

Heavy lids raised, revealing blue eyes clouded with what was most assuredly not pain, and Harvey’s panic subsided at the sight. He leaned in, nearly folding Mike in half, and kissed him possessively, feeling him go lax and pliant beneath him. He pulled Mike’s arms, one at a time, straight up over his head and guided his hands to the vertical wooden slats of the headboard. “Hold on,” he ordered, “and don’t let go.”

Mike gave another whimper, fingers tightening around the wood, the tendons in his arms standing out with the strength of his grip. Harvey lifted Mike’s legs, setting them over his shoulders. He took a moment to just look, to let his gaze devour the sight of Mike spread out beneath him. Then, with an almost feral snarl, he thrust home, spearing into Mike’s tight heat.

The intense sensation almost proved too much for Harvey. He nearly shot right then, and had to take slow, shallow breaths, willing himself to calm down. He tipped his head back and groaned deep in his chest at the feel of Mike’s hot channel gripping him, squeezing his cock. “Gods. You feel so good.”

“F-u-u-c-k,” gasped Mike. “Fuck me. Move. Please Harvey. _Please.”_

With his hands on Mike’s thighs, Harvey began a slow, thrusting rhythm, savoring every sweet sound, every beautiful micro-expression that flitted across Mike’s face. Why hadn’t they been doing this every day? What kind of idiot was Harvey that he’d thought there was some point to waiting, to delaying,,, _this_? Because _this_? This was paradise.

He rocked almost lazily for long minutes, delighting in the fleshy, smacking noises they made as they moved together, and the heavy, musky scent of sex that rose up like a cloud around them. He sat back a little, and resettled Mike’s legs at his hips, clutching his bottom for leverage as he changed his angle, fucking into him in hard, focused, rhythmic stabs, watching Mike’s eyes almost roll back in his head when he hit his prostate and kept on hitting it. Mike’s knuckles had turned bone white where he still clutched the headboard.

“Talk to me, Mike,” he panted. “Tell me how this makes you feel.”

“I… You….” His legs crossed behind Harvey, holding him in a viselike grip as he met Harvey thrust for thrust. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.” His slender, sinewy arms gleamed with sweat, and Harvey leaned in to lick his bicep. He mouthed him, sucking and nipping, chasing the salty taste.

Mike whimpered, and his pelvic movements grew jerkier, almost frantic, his stiff, leaking cock bobbing between them. “Touch me,” Mike begged. “I need….”

Harvey braced one hand on the headboard, next to Mike’s. His other hand gripped Mike’s cock, and as he continued to fuck roughly into him, he jerked Mike off, feeling the whole bed shake, feeling his heart shake, feeling his world shake on its foundations.

And then Mike was howling, arching up, head thrown back between his stretched straight arms, and he shot thick ropes of hot cum onto both of them. Harvey groaned at the sensation of Mike tightening and spasming around his cock, massaging him. Losing what control he had left, he grabbed the headboard with both hands now, pounding into Mike, wild with need.

“Oh God’s, Mike. Oh God’s….” He froze as his spine seemed to liquefy, and then he lost control of his body, shaking and jerking as his orgasm crashed through him, momentarily robbing him of sight and coherent thought.

 

******

 

Mike pried first one hand, and then the other away from its death grip on the headboard, and wrapped his arms around Harvey’s sweaty back. His lover lay lax and motionless, a welcome, heavy weight pinning Mike to the mattress. He was still buried inside Mike, cooling cum leaking out around his softening cock. Mike could feel Harvey’s heart over his, thudding in strong counterpoint to his. He had his face buried against Mike’s shoulder.

Mike was beginning to wonder if Harvey had dozed off, but then he felt Harvey’s tongue lapping his shoulder, and his teeth scraping gently.

“Mmm,” Harvey groaned. “You taste good.” He shifted a little to get his arms under Mike and pull him closer, and his cock slipped free, causing them both to shiver.

Mike ran a hand up the back of Harvey’s skull, grasping his hair, and pulled his unresisting head away from his shoulder so he could position it for a kiss. Harvey cooperated fully, his lips landing on Mike’s and taking lazy possession, moaning into Mike’s mouth for long minutes before breaking free to move slowly down Mike’s body, placing quick, passionate kisses on his chin, his neck, his shoulder, his chest and belly.

Mike held Harvey’s head between both hands, massaging his scalp and marveling at how quickly things had turned around between them. Half an hour ago, Mike had been about to walk out the door and not look back, and now Harvey was licking cum out of Mike’s belly button.

Mike laughed breathlessly, squirming under Harvey’s attentions. “That tickles.”

In response, Harvey rubbed his face against Mike’s sensitive belly, abrading him with his five o’clock shadow.

“Ugh,” Mike commented. “You’re going to get jizz in your hair.”

“I know,” said Harvey, unconcerned. But he lifted his head a minute later, giving Mike a sultry look that caused his dick to stir between his legs. “All right. Let’s go get cleaned up.”

Mike smiled down at him. “In a minute.”

“Come on. Have you seen my shower? I’ll wash your hair and scrub your back, and then show you a few tricks that detachable nozzle can do.”

Mike shuddered at that last part. _Nope. Been there, done that._ He hadn’t told Harvey everything that had happened during his time in Orsini’s basement, and he didn’t know if he ever would. He didn’t want to think about it, not now and maybe not ever. He wrapped his legs around Harvey’s waist, locking him in place. “Not just yet. I just want to… _be_ with you for a little bit. I was so sure we’d never get here.”

Harvey gave him a quizzical smile, but he crawled back up to lay next to Mike. This may have been new and unfamiliar, this closeness, but their limbs already knew what to do, and they wordlessly rearranged themselves until they were tangled up together in a perfect knot.

Harvey was quiet for a long time, and once again, Mike thought he had fallen asleep. He’d begun to doze off himself when Harvey’s hand stroked up his back and gripped the back of his neck lightly.

“Tell me you’re going to stay,” said Harvey.

Mike nodded sleepily against his shoulder. “As arguments go, that last one was… explosive. And convincing.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, but… there’s Harvard in a few months.”

“Until then. Can you give me that, at least?”

Mike stifled a yawn. Could he promise Harvey that? He thought about all of his years on the run, and his aimless, meandering path from one nameless place to another. He’d grown used to being on his own, but now, in a much shorter span of time, he’d grown used to Harvey. This, right now, in Harvey’s arms and in Harvey’s bed, felt more like home than anything he’d had since before Grammy got sick.

He stretched, arching his back, and resettled himself, aligning his body to Harvey’s once more. “I’ll stay,” he finally said. “And we’ll see. I guess there will be weekends and holidays. Summers. We could maybe stay in contact.”

Harvey’s arms tightened around him and he let out a sigh, as if already wearied by the thought of the impending separation. “No maybe about it,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

“If it’s meant to work out, it will,” said Mike. “Once I graduate, though, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I don’t know if I could stomach the snooty clients that Pearson Hardman caters to. Maybe I’ll be a public defender, for the underdogs of the world. If that happens, you might not even want to spoil your image by hanging around with me.”

He must have only imagined the sudden tension in Harvey’s arms, because half a second later it was gone.

“You don’t have to decide anything right now. Nothing permanent, at least.”

The last thing Mike heard, as he slid towards sleep, was Harvey telling him, “It’s enough that you’re here now, tonight.”

 

**_The End._ **

****

(This is essentially the end of the story, but I wrote the following epilogue for the Rachels.)

 

******

 

**Epilogue**

 

“How long do I have?” asked Rachel.

Scottie grabbed her elbow and pulled her along, urging her wordlessly to go faster. Smoke from dozens of campfires thickened the night air and stung their nostrils. Rachel’s high heels dug into the damp, grassy ground as Scottie led her through the maze of tents, moving with sure steps that showed that she had spent a lot of time here. When they reached a tattered blue tent, Scottie stopped abruptly and turned to face her.

“She didn’t want to see you,” she informed Rachel. “Sorry, but it’s the truth. I…persuaded her. There isn’t much time. We’re taking her north on the next transport.”

“How did you get her out?”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you that. There are others we still hope to free.”

Rachel hesitated, wrinkling up her nose. “What did they do to her in there?”

“You can ask her that yourself, if you think you have the stomach to hear the answer.” Scottie nudged her. “Go on. You have five minutes.”

When Rachel pushed through the flap opening of the tent, she froze in surprise. Instead of just her clone, Rachel the med-tech, she found Donna, sitting on the floor with her and sharing a sandwich.

“Donna? What…?”

“Oh, hey Rach.” The redhead stood unhurriedly and brushed crumbs from her jeans. She was wearing one of the “Lola” t-shirts under her jacket, and her normally immaculately styled hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. “I’ll get out of your way. I’m sure you have things you’d rather say to one another in private.”

“Wait. What are you even doing here?”

“My part.” She ducked down to push her way out of the tent.

Alone with her clone now, Rachel turned to look at her, and found herself being examined in return. The former med-tech and would-be assassin looked…tired. And she looked much less like Rachel the paralegal than she had that day in Mike’s hospital room. A paisley scarf covered her head, but didn’t disguise the fact that all of her long, dark hair had been shaved off. Rachel could see bruises at her neck and wrists. A thick bandage peeked out of the top of her t-shirt – also one of the “Lola” ones – and a pair of crutches lay on the ground behind her.

“They went a little rough on you, huh?” she asked.

Other Rachel laughed bitterly. “That’s like saying the Schismatic Wars were a little bit bloody.”

She tried not to feel sympathy for her clone, but it wasn’t easy. “You tried to murder someone who didn’t deserve it. You’re lucky to be alive right now.”

“Is that why you wanted to see me? To scold me and tell me what a bad person I am? Gods, look at you. We may share DNA, but that’s all. You look like a pampered little princess. What do you know about the real world? I did what I did because I’m a good soldier, and I follow orders.”

Rachel felt her own temper rising, and took a few calming breaths, reminding herself that she hadn’t come here to get into a fight. “Look, I get it. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I asked to see you because I wanted a chance to talk to you before you leave.”

Other Rachel grabbed her crutches and levered herself into a standing position, stooping a bit under the low ceiling. She frowned at Rachel. “Why?”

A good question, which Rachel struggled to answer honestly. “I never had a real family. When I was sold, they tried to wipe my memories of the farm, but it didn’t work completely. You know this, I’m guessing. I still have nightmares sometimes. Is it the same for you?”

Other Rachel gave a reluctant nod.

Paralegal Rachel continued. “I don’t remember you specifically, but I know we share a lot of experiences, not just DNA. And…and I refuse to believe there isn’t some kind of connection between us. I don’t know how many of… _us_ there are, but you’re the first I’ve run into, and you might be the last. So before you disappear, I wanted to meet you.” She fumbled in her purse for a few seconds and pulled out one of her business cards. “If you ever need anything, or just want to talk, you can call me, or email me.”

Other Rachel took the card, but with a skeptical look on her face. “So you can turn me in?”

“No. So I can know that there’s somebody out there in the world that will always be… _mine_. Even if she despises me and my life.”

Her clone stared back at her, a complex mixture of emotions playing over her face. “I don’t despise you,” she finally said, sounding reluctant.

Scottie poked her head into the tent. “We need to get moving.”

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.” She gave paralegal Rachel a penetrating look. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll call you every so often, keep you up to date with my travels and what I’m doing, if you promise to get your head out of the sand and do something – anything – to make a positive difference in the world.”

The paralegal nodded eagerly. “Yes. You have a deal. Maybe I could talk to Donna about helping out here.”

Other Rachel shrugged. “I suppose it’s a start. Every small action helps move us forward to a better future.” Using the crutches, she took one halting step towards the entrance and then stopped again. “Could you… when you see Mike Ross again, would you tell him I’m sorry? That was a tough one. I actually liked the guy, and I’m almost glad I failed… except for, you know, the whole torture part.”

Paralegal Rachel had nothing to say to that, so she nodded, and raised her hand in farewell as her clone ducked out of the tent and disappeared into the night. She waited a few minutes, trying to digest what had just happened, and then exited the tent to find Donna waiting for her.

“Are you okay?” she asked Rachel, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She gave a short laugh. “I’m not sure, but I think I just joined The Movement.” She made air quotes to emphasize the last two words. “So…need any help around here?”

“Welcome aboard. And yes, always. Follow me and and I’ll show you what needs to be done.” She began to steer Rachel back through the confusion of tents and milling refugees. “Next time, you might want to leave the stilettos and designer bag at home.

“I’ll remember that.” She gave Donna a sidelong glance, noting how different she looked out of her own designer dresses – harder, more determined, and stronger. Like she could conquer the world if that was what she wanted. “How soon is the new housing supposed to be finished?”

“It’s coming along, but the first buildings probably won’t be ready for move-in until spring at the soonest. You and I and the rest of the volunteers are going to have our hands full until then.”

“Oh. Okay.”

They had reached a clear area in what seemed to be the center of the camp, containing half a dozen picnic tables, and lit up with masses of colorful holiday lights strung overhead on metal poles. Perhaps seven or eight people were already there, and they greeted Donna and welcomed Rachel to their group. To Rachel’s astonishment, Donna seemed to be the one in charge, and she rapidly handed out assignments and got them all moving. She kept Rachel at her side to show her the ropes.

As they sorted food and supplies into individual boxes for distribution, Rachel got up the nerve to ask Donna, nodding toward her chest, “I’ve seen those t-shirts everywhere, especially the ones with Mike’s face on them. There are rumors, but….”

“But what?” Donna’s face gave nothing away.

“What did he do? That business with the dirigible at the Brooklyn Bridge…. They were calling him a terrorist, and now I hear he’s been granted his freedom, and they say he’s even been accepted into Harvard. No one at the firm will say why, not that most of them know what’s going on either. I don’t understand any of it.”

“You don’t need to. One day hordes of historians will argue and debate and untangle the whole mess.”

Rachel had to laugh at that. “Hordes of historians? Yeah, right.”

“Stranger things have happened. I believe we’re all potentially important players in the Great Game. Who knows? Maybe some future biographer will note that today was the day Rachel Zane made her first steps towards immortality.”

Rachel gaped at her, and then laughed again. “Like that would ever happen. I’m just a clone, remember?” Recalling where she was, she glanced around nervously, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention to their conversation. “Wow, Donna. Can I have some of whatever you’ve been drinking?”

“I’m dead sober. For the first time in a long while, my thoughts are completely clear and I see what needs to be done.”

Rachel closed up the last box gave Donna a quizzical head tilt. “And what’s that?”

Donna smiled back at her. “We need to fill some more boxes. The empty ones are over there. Grab some, would you?”

“Okay.”

Rachel got them some more boxes, and they fell silent, working together under the twinkling holiday lights, apportioning food to feed the hungry refugees of the People’s Free Republic of Flatbush.

“Looks like you got a ton of donations,” Rachel commented after a while.

“More than enough.” Donna paused to swipe back a wisp of hair that had come loose from her ponytail and fallen in her eyes. “More and more arrives every day. I guess people are finally waking up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardest chapter I ever wrote. [Falls down dead....regenerates and jumps back up, ready to write some more.]
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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